The Game Continues
by BelinasEgg
Summary: After Sherlock pulls the trigger, and the bomb explodes, the race is on to find Moriarty. With another serial killer on the loose, and Sherlock and John struggling to recover from the explosion, will Moriarty get away? No Slash. Set after the Great Game
1. Television

**I've recently been watched BBC's Sherlock Holmes, and I think their amazing. Though I can't believe they left them off on such a cliffhanger! So this is my take on what happens after Sherlock explodes the bomb, assuming he does of course. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, or any of the other characters.**

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><p>Detective inspector Lestrade idly flicked through the channels on his TV. It was about one in the morning, and despite knowing he should get some sleep, he still sat, changing channel every time he got board of the previous one, which was often. His life had been busy, and he had been spending most nights at the office. It had been a busy time. He sighed. Anything could happen, the way events had been going recently. He flipped to the news channel, promising himself that he would go to bed after he had seen if anything new had cropped up. He watched a reporter explaining how the recently found Vermeer painting was a fake. Lestrade didn't often watch the news that had anything to do with his cases, so watched with mild interest as a scenario was explained. Not the true scenario however. No mention of Sherlock Holmes. The police wouldn't want his involvement to be known. Lestrade was about to turn the TV off, when a new headline caught his eye. He put the remote down, and watched.<p>

_"And now, our new piece news. _said the reporter. _There has been another explosion. At 12.14 AM this morning, a pool in London exploded. _Lestrade frowned, was this connected to the other bombings? He thought it likely. _The police are already on the scene, and have so far have pulled one man from the rubble. This is very similar to the gas explosion on Baker Street, and the one on the edge of London." _The TV screen flicked from a sombre faced news reader, to a building, collapsed, on fire, smoke filling the air. An ambulance, lights blaring, several police cars, and men running everywhere, some crowded round a stretcher, while others trying to quench the flames. Lestrade watched mournfully. Another explosion. He really would need to talk to Sherlock. He had promised to inform him of any new developments, and now he had gone off alone, and caused another explosion. The camera focused it's lens on the stretcher, though it was impossible to see the man lying there. "_Police have confirmed that there is another person trapped under the rubble, and they are currently trying to rescue them." _Lestrade leaned forward slightly, studying the scene. It certainly looked like another bomb. Presumably somebody had been killed, because Sherlock had failed to solve a puzzle. Though what anybody would be doing at a swimming pool at midnight, he didn't know. Several more police cars had arrived on the scene, and a crowd of citizens were beginning to crowd round, most wearing dressing gowns. Suddenly, a group of firemen emerged from a particularly smoking section of the building, carrying somebody on a stretcher. The camera turned away from the building, to a reporter, and Sergeant Sally Donovan. Lestrade was pleased to see that she was on the scene. Hopefully things wouldn't get so out of control. He was concerned to see her face creased in fear, and sadness. Putting this to the fact another building had exploded, Lestrade listened.

"_...this a gas leak again?_ asked the reporter. _"We believe not, certain evidence has come up to make us believe that this was a bomb attack." _she said, glancing anxiously at the first stretcher, and then at the second. "_And do you have any suspicions as to who it was?" _asked the reporter. _"Not currently, though we believe this maybe related the explosion on Baker Street." _Sally turned away, and hurried to the stretcher, asking some urgent questions, her hands twisted together. The cameraman followed her. The lights from the ambulance cast a strange light upon the scene. A scene that D.I Lestrade had least expected. Two stretchers were set side by side, medics and police crowded round them. On the nearest, lay a tall, pale man with a mop of dark curly hair. His long coat was charred and smoking, his pale face covered in blood and newly forming bruises. Lestrade recognised him instantly. It was Sherlock Holmes. On the other stretcher, the more recent one, lay Sherlock's flatmate, Dr. Watson. He looked just as bad, if not worse. Blood coating his jumper, and his light brown hair matted with blood and dust. Lestrade barely let the scene sink in, before jumping to his feet, grabbing his coat, and running through the door. No wonder Sally had looked so anxious. Something had gone seriously wrong for Sherlock, perhaps fatally. Though what he and John had been doing at the pool, was a mystery. He flagged a taxi, and jumped in. He needed to get there as quickly as possible. If even Sherlock had been attacked by this bomber, then things were way out of control. Nobody should be able to get even close to killing Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><strong>Alright, end of chapter one. I hope it was alright! I'll get the next one up by the weekend. Hopefully it'll be a little longer. Please review! (=<strong>


	2. Explosion

**Chapter two! It took longer than I thought. I hope that it's good! (=**

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><p>The taxi soon arrived at a police barrier, and Lestrade jumped out. Paying the cabbie, he flashed his badge at the officers standing by the tape, and ducked under, running to where Sally Donovan stood, a mobile phone in her hands. The scene looked far worse than it had on the television. Smoke clouded the air. And the flames and police car lights cast a strange flickering light on everything. A ambulance roared off, sirens blaring, screeching as it set off. Donovan looked up, and she barely managed to conceal her relief at the sight of Lestrade.<p>

"Inspector. I'm glad your here." she said in a carefully calm voice.

Lestrade could see her face was paler than normal, and the hands that held the phone shook very slightly.

"Sergeant, what happened?" asked Lestrade.

Sally took a deep breath, calming herself.

"I was just about to leave the office tonight, when I got a call from Sergeant Johnson. He told me to get down here, because..." she stopped

"Because what?" snapped Lestrade, though he didn't have to be a consulting detective to guess.

"Because frea-Sherlock was in this building when it exploded. He knew we worked together occasionally."

"I know, where is he?"

"How did..."

"TV." said Lestrade, cutting her off.

"Oh. Sherlock and Watson were in that ambulance. They should have reached the hospital by now."

"Good. And what do the medics think about their condition?"

Sally licked her lips anxiously.

"They both should make it." she said cautiously.

"Good. We need to get down there." Lestrade said, looking round.

The fire had been quenched, and already the police officers had set up tapes around the crime scene. The press were already converging on the disaster area, being held back by more officers. Lestrade, followed by Donovan hurried to one of the police cars, which was helping to form a barricade.

"Don't let anybody touch the scene without my permission." snapped Lestrade to Sergeant Johnson, who was standing to attention.

He nodded, and silently opened the police car door. Lestrade and Donovan climbed in.

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><p>Sally Donovan sat, watching the road silently as they drove a little quicker than was allowed down the streets of London. It had been a perfectly normal night, until Johnson had called her up. As soon as she heard the ringing, Sally had known that something was wrong.<p>

"Sergeant Donovan?" he had asked hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"I believe you know ."

Sally had hesitated. She never liked admitting to knowing the freak. And she wasn't even sure which way the conversation was going.

"I have met him." she had admitted.

"Then get down here. Holmes has been caught up in an explosion. I don't know anybody else he knows."

Sally frowned.

"What about his flatmate, Dr. Watson?"

"He was with Holmes."

The silence had stretched out. Then Sally had hurried from the office, getting directions to the scene. She sighed as the police car car halted before a set of lights. It was strange, despite disliking the freak considerably, she felt almost guilty about what had happened. And she had nothing against John.

Lestrade tapped her on the shoulder.

"Do you want to come in?" he asked, opening the door and stepping into the hospital carpark.

"Actually, I'd rather go and get some sleep." said Sally, sliding across into the drivers seat.

"Right, but I want you at the office by 10 tomorrow."

Sally nodded, and Lestrade slammed the door shut.

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><p>Lestrade walked slowly up to the hospital doors. The ambulance was outside, but the entrance was empty. He hurried inside, and walked up to a desk. A middleaged women looked up from her laptop.<p>

"What can I do for you sir. I hope you realise that visiting hours are 10 until 4." she said in a board voice.

Lestrade refrained from frowning, instead keeping his face calm.

"Where are the two men that were brought in?" he asked, pulling out his badge, and showing it to her.

The desk attendant carefully examined the card, then glanced at Lestrade. Her face from changed from annoyance to politeness. She turned to her laptop, and clicked furiously for a few seconds.

" and ?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Their currently in surgery. If you could come back tomorrow, with any relatives? They might be needed to help with some medical decisions." she said hesitantly.

"Of course."

He turned on his heel, and marched from the hospital.

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><p><strong>There we go! I'm not sure when I'll update again, as I've got loads to do. But it will be in the very near future. Please, please, please review! It really keeps me motivated, and advice is always welcome!<strong>


	3. Hospital

**Hey! Another Chapter up. I hope you guys like this. And_ please_ review! Many thanks to Keyblade User for reviewing! Another probably (but hopefully not) boring chapter where nothing happens.**

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><p>At ten in the morning, Lestrade marched into the hospital, towing a women. Harriet Watson. He had found her easily enough, and she had been partially drunk when he called. Telling her about John, had however, sobered her up. And now, she fully understood what had happened.<p>

"I just can't believe John would get himself into a situation like that, he's always been so careful." she murmured unhappily.

"Well, Sherlock does that to people." commented Lestrade.

Harry frowned. Cogs obviously clicking together in her brain.

"His flatmate! Wait till I get my hands on him, I'll throttle him." she muttered darkly, following Lestrade through the doors.

Despite searching, he had found nothing about Sherlock's relations. Either he had none, or they were not on any sort of speaking terms. But, as he walked through the doors, and was crossing towards the desk, a man stepped forward, and umbrella in his hand.

"Detective inspector Lestrade?" he asked cordially.

"Yes?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes, I believe my brother was caught up in an explosion?"

"Brother...? Oh, yes he was." said Lestrade, frowning.

This Mycroft looked nothing like Sherlock, and he had searched for any relations, and found none.

"Harriet. So nice to see you. I'm so sorry about John."

Harry frowned, then shook Mycroft's proffered hand.

"Did John know you?"

"We have met, but were not on intimate terms." said Mycroft carefully.

"Right." said Harry.

"So, have you any news?" asked Mycroft, as they made their way to the desk.

"None yet. We don't know why they were there, or what caused the explosion."

"I was actually thinking about my brother's condition. It seems fairly obvious who was responsible for the explosion."

"Oh. Erm, I think it's stable, though I'm not sure."

Mycroft strode ahead, and was talking quickly to the receptionist when Lestrade and Harry caught up.

"...Of course, sir. Second ward." said the receptionist.

Mycroft turned to Lestrade.

"It appears you were right, Sherlock is fine, and should be waking soon. John, however, in in a worse way." he said.

Harry grimaced.

"Can we see him?

"Yes, family and police only, so we all fit the bill."

Mycroft smiled genially, and strode down the corridor, Harry and Lestrade on his heels.

"Sherlock never mentioned you." said Lestrade carefully as he trotted along.

"No, I shouldn't think he would. My brother considers me as more of an enemy than a friend." Mycroft sighed, but did not elaborate.

Soon they were standing outside the room Sherlock was in. A policeman was standing outside. By Lestrades orders. When he saw Lestrade, he nodded. It was Johnson. After getting to the office, Lestrade had called him and asked him to set guards outside Sherlock's and John's rooms at the hospital.

"Inspector. Nobody except yourself, doctors and family allowed, by your own orders." he said, looking pointedly at Mycroft and Harry.

"I know, Johnson. But their with me. This is Sherlock's room?"

"Yes, sir."

"And John?"

"In a life support room. Upstairs. The doctor's need a family member soon, there are some tricky decisions to make."

"Very well, I'll take you up in a minute, Harriet. I just want to have a look at Sherlock."

Harry nodded, and drew back, while Mycroft and Lestrade entered the room.

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><p>Harry had been at home, half out, when she had gotten the call. It had been this detective inspector Lestrade. He had gently informed her that John had been caught up in a pool explosion. Even now, it seemed hard to believe. John had survived Afghanistan because of being cautious. And when he arrived back in London, she had been sure he would be safe. Then he met up with Sherlock Holmes. She had read his blog, and was amazed he put up with the man. He was a freak, and a idiot. And now, they had both gotten themselves blown. She would be having serious words with this Holmes. Her fists clenched. And what the two of them had even been doing at a swimming pool, at midnight. She could only guess. She sighed, and leaned against the wall, patting down her ruffled blonde hair.<p>

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><p>Lestrade allowed Mycroft to lead the way, and followed him into the room. It was a typical hospital room. White, smelling strongly of disinfectant. In the centre was a bed, surrounded by machines, and a small chair. Mycroft strode hurriedly over, hiding any emotions he may, or may not, have had. Sherlock didn't look to worse for ware. He had been cleaned up, and his face wasn't to much whiter than normal. His curly black hair was singed in places, and his face was bruised. Mycroft watched him sadly, his lips pursed. Lestrade looked carefully round the rest of the room. Bleeping machines, and stark white walls. That was his first impression. A large window looked down onto the street, but a quick look told him that it was bullet proof.<p>

He looked back to Sherlock. The heart monitor was beeping steadily, and the slight rising and falling of his chest showed that Sherlock was close to waking up. Mycroft pulled a phone from his pocket, and quickly send three texts in succession. Despite claiming to be Sherlock's brother, Lestrade had no idea who Mycroft really was, and was slightly suspicious.

"What were you doing?" he asked, trying not to sound hostile.

"Sending a message to my assistant. Sending a message to our mother, and another to my colleague, telling him I'll be late." said Mycroft cooly.

"Right."

"Can I ask that you have two more guards posted outside, and another in here?" he asked, not looking away from Sherlock.

"Why?"

"Because as soon as my brother wakes up, he will try to escape. A habit of his."

"...Of course."

Mycroft nodded, and seated himself on the chair. Lestrade hastily left, telling Johnson on the way out to post more guards.

He then walked over the Harry, who was leaning against the wall. Her face cold.

"Before we go, I need to ask you some questions." she almost snarled.

"Uhm, of course." said Lestrade, indicating that they should find a more private place.

Soon they were walking slowly up a corridor, towards the third floor staircase.

"Firstly, what was my brother doing at a swimming pool at midnight, with his crazy flatmate?"

"Well. We're not totally sure. As I said before, Sherlock's like that. We wouldn't think twice about why he would be there, might have been some kind of experiment that went wrong. But, John. He's not unpredictable, and despite what you think, Sherlock wouldn't put him in danger unless it was absolutely necessary, or out of his control. So why they were both there, poses a serious question."

"Get to the point." snarled Harry, refraining from being polite.

"Recently, there have been a number of explosions. Somebody has been playing a sort of game with Sherlock. Setting him a puzzle, and blowing up somebody if he fails to solve it in time. John was, of course, caught up in this, as he always helps Sherlock these days."

Harry nodded.

"We believe John and Sherlock were set another test, and were told to go to the pool. Sherlock wouldn't even hesitate, and John is strangely loyal to him. They went, and then this mystery bomber probably tried to blow them up."

"I see. But why was this person setting challenges for Holmes?"

"Well... Sherlock believes that it was for attention, but also," Lestarde winced. "Because he got board."

"What. Somebody killed other people, _because they were board?_" exclaimed Harry, stumbling slightly.

"Yes."

They walked in silence.

"I swear I'll kill him."

"The bomber, or Sherlock?"

"Both."

Another silence stretched on until they reached the room John was in. Another guard was stationed outside, and two doctor's were talking quickly together in a corner. Lestrade hurried over, and introduced Harry. They led her into an adjacent room, leaving Lestrade in the hallway.

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><p><strong>There we go. I hope it was good (= Thanks for reading, and look forward to the next chapter soon. I can promise that Sherlock will wake up, and introduce a bit of excitement. But it's impossible for him not to. As always, please review! It means so much to me when you do. <strong>


	4. Dimwitted

**Another Chapter. Sherlock finally wakes up, but you'll have to wait a bit for John to wake. **

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><p>Sherlock slowly returned to conciousness, but didn't open his eyes. Everything was wrong. The smell. Whatever he was lying on, it was too soft. And the atmosphere, was so still and boring. He didn't dare move. The last thing he remembered was pulling the trigger of John's gun, and being thrown against the wall as the bomb exploded. The unimaginable pain, screaming. Blood. The bitter smell of the pool's chlorine, and then dust choking his lungs. Sirens, and then, absolutely nothing. He could be anywhere. Even in Moriarty's hands... He sniffed again, trying to keep his breathing steady as he remembered the explosion. Until he knew where he was, he should pretend to be asleep. A steady throbbing pain was coursing through his body. Every limb seemed stiff and sore, but nothing seemed broken. He heard a chair creaked beside him, and somebody sigh. He resisted frowning as he tried to figure out who it was. In the silence after that noise, Sherlock suddenly became aware of the steady <em>beep beep beep <em>of a heart monitor. _Hospital. _He thought bitterly, opening his grey eyes, and scanning the ceiling. Now he was sure. That smell. And the clean, white, boring walls. He sighed heavily, and Lestrade shifted. He knew it was Lestrade by the faint smell of tobacco.

"Sherlock?" his voice was soft and cautious.

Sherlock turned his head languidly, and carefully scanned the DI's face. It was pale, drawn, anxious. He was showing all the signs of stress and lack of sleep. That would be the reason he could smell smoke.

"You look awful." he said, turning away.

"Good to see you too Sherlock." sighed Lestrade.

Sherlock lay for a moment, in thought. He had obviously been lucky. He sincerely hoped the little worm that was Moriarty had been killed. Suddenly, he cut himself off. _John... He had been there too. _He knew his breathing must have sped up, because Lestrade was peering down at him.

"John. What happened to him?" he demanded, managing to keep his voice emotionless. He was genuinely worried for his flatmate. Anything could have happened, and he was friends with the ex army doctor. As Moriarty had used to his advantage.

"Sherlock... Calm down." said Lestrade, ignoring the question.

This sent a chill down Sherlock, and he sat up, ignoring Lestrade's cry of 'don't'. He gazed fixedly at the DI, waiting.

"John is alive, Sherlock." he breathed deeply. "But, in a critical condition. There's internal bleeding, and possible brain damage and memory loss."

Sherlock nodded curtly, and Lestrade pushed him down.

"What about Moriarty?" he demanded, voice now steely with hate.

"Sorry, who?"

"Moriarty," snapped Sherlock. "The third man at the explosion..."

"There wasn't anybody else."

Sherlock sucked in a breath, and slowly let out.

"Oh." his grey eyes flickered for a moment, fixing on something nobody else could see.

"He's still alive then." he whispered, closing his eyes.

"Sherlock, you _need_ to tell me what happened."

Sherlock ignored him, eyes still closed as he tried to sort out his hard drive.

"You need to double security on his hospital, background checks on all the staff." he said, eyes snapping open.

"I will, when you tell me what happened in there." said Lestrade patiently.

Sherlock gazed coldly at him.

"Moriarty is the bomber. I said I'd meet him at the Carl Power's pool. He captured John, and strapped another bomb to him, but did meet me in person. He let us go, and I took the bomb off, and then he came back, and I blew up the bomb." said Sherlock at an inhumanly fast speed.

"Right..." Lestrade, nodded, and stood up.

"I need to speak to Molly, Lestrade. And Harry Watson," he hesitated, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile. "And Mycroft."

"Right, Harry's already here. Making some medical decisions. I should warn you, she's planning on strangling you."

"Very well, send her in first." said Sherlock, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers.

Lestrade hesitated, then left, sighing. Even a bed ridden Sherlock was ordering him about.

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><p>Harry turned over the medical report, and sighed heavily. John had serious injuries, and possible memory loss It would be expensive, and she just couldn't afford it. Neither could he. Even though he had a job at some surgery, it was a small pay check, and his army pension was useless. There was a cheaper option, but results were not guaranteed. She turned to the two doctor's and smiled slightly.<p>

"How long before he needs treatment?" she asked.

"You need to decide by tomorrow." said the first.

"Okay... I just need to think." _there's nothing to think about. _She thought miserably. She had one choice. "Can I see him?"

"Of course, this way."

The doctor's led her into the hospital room. Harry seated herself on a small, hard chair and surveyed her brother. He looked pale, and his face was bruised. As well as the possible brain injuries. and internal bleeding, he had two broken ribs, and a fractured skull. She sighed. Watching his still face. He could just be sleeping, if she squinted. There was a gentle knock at the door, and Lestrade entered, his face happier than it had been before. In fact, he seemed to be barely contain a smirk.

"What?" she snapped, feeling that nobody should even be remotely happy while John lay in life support.

"Sherlock is awake, he wants to speak with you." said the DI gently.

Harry nodded, patted John's lifeless hand, and left the room, following Lestrade down the hallways, anger bubbling in her stomach. She would give this 'wondeful' detective a piece of her mind. The were four guards outside his room, and Lestrade stopped her before they were in hearing.

"Look, Harriet, I know your angry. But you really have to consider Sherlock as a child."

She grimaced, cold faced.

"And here." he handed her a card.

She examined it closely.

"What's this?"

"It's to allow you entry to Sherlock's and John's room. Sherlock asked me to double security, and Mycroft had already asked that I keep Sherlock guarded."

"Frightened for his baby brother?" she sneered.

"Well," Lestrade almost giggled, but straitened his face when Harry clenched her fist. "Sherlock's probably planning his escape as he speak."

"What... Oh, forget it. I remember. A little kid."

She stormed off, leaving Lestrade. Showing her cards to the guards, she was allowed to enter the small room. It first struck her that it was a lot nicer than John's. A private room, obviously. The consulting detective was lounging on a bed, his eyes closed, fingers pressed to his temples.

"Ah, good Harry. Take a seat." he said, without opening his eyes.

A seething Harry seated herself on the chair, sitting on her hands to stop herself punching the monster. He opened his eyes, which were a startling shade of grey, and so bright. He watched her for a moment, then smirked.

"Don't worry, I'll get Mycroft to pay." he said, closing his eyes again.

"Wh... What?" she stuttered.

"Lestrade!" shouted Sherlock, opening his eyes a second time.

Lestrade rushed into the room, but halted when he saw nothing was the matter.

"What?"

"Fetch my brother."

Lestrade nodded meekly, and left again. Sherlock turned his bright eyes on Harry again, making her feel like he was reading her soul.

"How is he?" he asked softly.

"John. Well, he's bloody dying!" she snarled, lip curling.

"No, John will make it through. He _has _to." said the detective sternly, as though forbidding John to die.

"Well even if he does, he wont be himself." said Harry angry, wondering how to breach the topic of what the hell he and Sherlock had been doing at a swimming pool.

"You really are rather dim," Sherlock drawled, ignoring her bunched up fists. "I've already told you that John shall be moved to a private room immediately, and receive all necessary treatment."

"Oh..." Harry couldn't remember him saying that...

A long silence ensued.

"But, you needed a flat mate because you didn't have enough money for your own flat." said Harry triumphantly, sure that Sherlock was pulling her leg.

The tall man rolled his eyes.

"Despite being in debt, I'm sure the country can afford for John to be fixed."

"The country... What the hell are you talking about?"

"Maybe it's the drinking... I suggest you stop, it's making you dimmer that seventy five percent of the country. My brother is the British government, I'm sure he'll sort it out." Sherlock said slowly, as though Harry were a toddler.

"I didn't come here to be insulted!" Harry shouted, her fist now hovering by her side. "The British government..."

Sherlock sighed.

"As soon as Mycroft arrives, you can leave. Your dull, and dimwitted. The only interest you posses is whether you were born stupid, or it was the drinking."

Harry raised her fist, and punched Sherlock as hard as she could. Except, her fist never connected with his arrogant nose, instead, he raised a hand, without even glancing at her, and her hand impacted with that.

"I don't suggest you do that again." he said, dropping his hand.

"I want to know what my brother was doing at the pool when it exploded."

Sherlock froze, his eyes open, unmoving and unlinking. Then he anxiously licked his lips and looked away.

"It was my fault, almost," he admitted, gauging her reaction. "We had a fight, about... I can't remember. Anyway, we had a fight, and he went to Sarah's, and I agreed to meet Moriarty at the Carl Power's pool. Don't ask." he glared at her, and she shut her mouth. "Moriarty is responsible for all the recent explosions. He's playing a game with me, because he's board." Sherlock sighed, fingers locked together.

"He has a habit of strapping bombs to people, and forcing them to read out his words, that way, I never got to him." Sherlock paused, remembering the awful moment when John had stepped out from one of of the cubicles, and... He shook himself. And drew an embarrassingly shaky breath. "This time, he used John. He did it because John is my... my..." Sherlock hesitated, and glanced at Harry. "Because's John is my heart. He's the only one I care about. The only person I couldn't bare to see killed."

Harry watched the apparently indifferent man before her close his eyes to hide the emotion there. This idiot actually cared about her brother...?

"Moriarty used that to his advantage, though he seems to think I consider John as a pet. I would have shot Moriarty, even though I would have died. But he would have killed John too. So I didn't shoot him, and he let us go, for a few moments. I took the bomb of John, but then Moriarty came back, saying he was going to kill us both. I detonated the bomb by shooting it."

Sherlock finished, and sighed, refusing to run a hand through his black hair. That was a sign of weakness.

"Okay, right." Harry coughed uncomfortably. She decided not to strangle the detective. Not yet, anyway.

Mycroft entered the room, and seated himself.

"Make yourself at home." Sherlock sneered venomously.

"Thank you, dear brother."

Sherlock's lip curled.

"I want John moved to private rooms, and given all the treatment needed." said Sherlock coldly.

"On one condition, brother."

Sherlock's mouth opened, and he glared soundlessly at his brother.

"What is it?" asked Harry on Sherlock's behalf.

"That you, Sherlock, promise not to try and escape until the nurses say you can leave."

"Mycroft. That's not fair." whined Sherlock.

"It's only a little request Sherlock, and it would so set Mummy's mind at rest."

"Alright, if I can visit John."

"Deal."

"Deal." said Sherlock, reluctantly shaking his brother's hand.

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><p><strong>Okay, so. How did I do. Is Sherlock any good, or a bit OOC? And this is how I always imagined Harry, quite a bit different from her brother, but what about you? Reviewing makes my day (=<strong>


	5. Bored

**Okay, Chapter 5. Sorry it took so long, but I had a busy weekend. **

londonrunner: **Hmm, good point. I don't have much experiance in these things. (Being thirteen doesn't help) You'll just have to bare with me and assume that this type of treatment isn't available at the NHS. *hopeful***

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><p>Sherlock glared daggers at the nurse who was arranging his bed. So far, she was the only one that had passed all Mycroft's tests, and now Sherlock had figured out every detail of her life, he was bored. It was early morning, and his conversation with Harry the day before was buzzing round his mind. He hoped that John was in a private room, and receiving all the treatment he needed. But for now, that didn't matter. He pressed his fingers against his forehead, and closed his eyes. He listening closely to the nurse moving around.<p>

"Is Lestrade here?" he snapped, barely moving his lips.

"No, I don't think so dear." said the nurse.

Sherlock's lip curled, but he said nothing.

"What about Harry Watson?" he demanded.

"I think she went to get some belongings from your flat." said the nurse, bustling around.

"Pass me my phone?" he said, holding out a hand.

It took fifty seven seconds for his hand to dip under the weight of his phone. He scowled, eyes snapping open as he fixed them on the screen, texting with practised ease. He sent the text, and tossed the phone onto the table. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored... He thought grumpily. He would have said it aloud, but the nurse had forbidden it. So he sat, thinking. Hoping that he was thinking loud enough for the nurse to hear. She probably wouldn't.

"Is Lestrade here?" he asked a second time.

"No, it's only nine thirty, and visiting hours are from ten onwards."

"Lestrade is part of the police, he should be allowed in here any time." snapped Sherlock.

The nurse nodded, and made and exit, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. His phone vibrated as it received a text, and he stretched out a hand, only finding that his fingers were a few inches away from the object. He snarled in frustration, and flopped back against the pillows, deciding to wait. It would only be Harry. The seconds ticked by, and the heart monitor continued to beep annoyingly. Sherlock closed his eyes. There was a problem he should be thinking about. But it was hard to do that in hospital. The room didn't spark any ideas. It was only possible to get suicidal thoughts by staring at the walls. And the ceiling was even worse. At least that appalling wallpaper in his flat was vaguely interesting.

At five minutes to nine, Lestrade marched in, towing a terrified looking Molly. Sherlock ignored them, and they seated themselves. He finally opened his eyes. Both Molly and Lestrade were watching him intently.

"Molly, how nice to see you. And Lestrade." said Sherlock coolly, eyes almost unblinking. Molly blushed, and Lestrade shuffled uncomfortably.

"Pass me my phone."

Lestrade handed him the device, and Sherlock scrolled down the texts, finally finding the one from Harry.

_Okay, got it. See you 11. Has Mycroft moved John?_

Sherlock nodded to himself, and tossed the phone at Molly, who luckily caught it.

"Molly, I need to know about Jim from IT." he said.

Molly blushed, but managed to compose herself.

"Why do you want to know about him?" she asked defensively.

"Hmm, maybe it's the fact that he tried to kill me and John at the pool. And he's the reason I'm stuck in this... place. Or maybe, I'm incredibly interesting in your social life."

Molly's mouth fell open, and she stared at Sherlock. Then closed it with a snap.

"Jim wouldn't do that! What do you have against him? First you accuse him of... of being gay! And now, trying to kill you! Jim would _never _do that." she shouted standing up, red faced.

"Oh please." moaned Sherlock, closing his eyes.

"Look Molly. If Sherlock says its true, then it is. I'm sorry." said Lestrade gently. "You know all of these explosions," Molly nodded hesitantly. "And how Sherlock's been working on a case. Well Jim Moriarty is responsible for all of it."

Molly fell into her chair, covering her face in her hands.

"Now that we've got that sorted, I need you to tell me every detail of your time together." said Sherlock matter of factly, receiving a glare from Lestrade.

Molly gave a shaky squeak. Sherlock drew a deep breath.

"Molly, I know your upset. But Moriarty has the power to kill thousands of people, he nearly killed _me._" Sherlock paused. "And John. I need your help. You want to stop Moriarty, right?"

Molly nodded hesitantly.

"He was just always so nice. He understood everything. H-he, took notice of me." she shot Sherlock a teary glance, but luckily missed his eyes rolling.

"Okay, how did you meet?" asked Sherlock steadily.

"About a week before he met you. To be honest, I didn't notice him until he came over, and asked if I would like a coffee. He was so hesitant, and... sweet, that I could refuse. So we went. And I talked all about my job in the Morgue, and he didn't seem to mind I worked with dead bodies. And the end of our coffee, he offered to take me out to dinner the next time. And I accepted."

"More data please, less about yourself." said Sherlock harshly.

Molly nodded quickly.

"Well, we went. And he asked about my job again. And the topic went over to you. He was interested, but sided with me, saying you were an unfeeling man," Molly bit her lip, but Sherlock shrugged this comment off.

"Go on, what else did he say?"

"He said that nobody could ignore me, and that you were crazy to ignore me." Molly blushed again.

"I get the picture. And after he met me?"

"He became a little distant, but we still went on dates. I wasn't sure whether to believe you or not. Eventually he came over and broke it off, without any warning." Molly sniffed a little.

"It wasn't a healthy relationship to start with. You were using him to get to me. And he was using you to get to me." Sherlock shrugged. "Okay, you can go Molly."

Molly nodded tremulously, and stood.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I swear I didn't know."

"If you had known, I would know by now." said Sherlock, his voice a little kinder than normal.

Molly quickly left.

"So, any ideas?" asked Lestrade as the door swung shut.

"None yet. Molly didn't know anything. Just another tool in Moriarty's game. Did you double security?"

"Yes."

"Well, make sure Molly's safe, she could be in danger."

Lestrade nodded, and made to leave.

"How's John?" asked Sherlock a little hesitantly.

"Mycroft moved him to a private room, and he's receiving treatment."

"Good..."

A silence spanned out. And Lestrade took another step towards the door.

"For the first time, Lestrade, I didn't know what was going to happen, when John walked out at the pool."

Lestrade was saved from answering this awkward stament by the door being flung open, and Sherlock's nurse hurrying in.

She was middle aged women, twice divorced, and had no children. Though from her scraped pink finger nails, Sherlock knew she had a lover. He gave Lestrade a regal wave of the hand, dismissing him. The nurse hurried over, and examined the heart monitor.

"How are you feeling, pet?" she asked.

At the word 'pet' Sherlock's fists clenched, and the heart monitor sped up slightly. Everything was reminding him of Moriarty and John.

"I'm fine." he said roughly, flinging the thin sheets to the end of the bed, and getting up.

"Hey! Stop right there mister. You are not allowed to leave your bed." snapped the nurse, taking Sherlock firmly by the arm, and pushing him none to gently back into bed.

"I need to _pace._" growled Sherlock, drawing his legs up to his chest. "You don't have any idea how hard it is to track down bombers in hospital. So much I'm not _allowed _to do." he glared angrily at the nurse.

"You'll be allowed out in a week." said the nurse weakly.

"A week! I'll die of boredom by then. And Moriarty will have killed at least four other people. When can I go and see John?"

"Your brother gave me express orders not to allow you out of the room. No moving."

Sherlock froze. _So Mycroft had said that, had he? _he thought angrily. Then a slight smile twitched on his pale lips. That meant that their 'deal' was off. He could be out of this dratted place in a day. Then the search could really begin. Sherlock wiped his smile away, and lay down, escape plans releasing him from the boredom for a short while.

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><p><strong>There we go. I hope it wasn't to boring. Sherlock's already getting frustrated. Thanks for all the amazing reviews! Next chapter up by the weekend! Share your opinions and review (=<strong>


	6. Working

**Okay, this is going to be the last of the boring chapters. I hope your enjoying it thus far. **

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><p>Sherlock sat, arms crossed. Harry Watson should be arriving any moment. With the case files. At least he could do something while confined to his bed. Even though he was planning to leave the next day. He gently figered the bandage that was wrapped around his broken rib. That was by far the worst of his injuries. The rest was simply bruising and minor cuts and scrapes. The door swung open, and Harry appeared, staggering slightly under a heavy folder.<p>

"Here, the files that were on your desk, if you can call it that." she said, dumping them on the bed side table.

Sherlock nodded, snatching a piece of paper from the middle, and gestured that Harry should sit. This she did.

"How's John?" he asked, scanning the paper.

"Fine, thanks to you." she admitted. "The surgery was successful, and he should wake up in a few days."

Sherlock didn't respond, examining the paper. It contained a very limited amount of information on Chinese smuggling gang he and John had disbanded a while back.

"So when will you be allowed out of here?" asked Harry, trying to make conversation.

"Hmm, what? Officially, I'll be out next week."

"Officially?"

Sherlock lowered the paper, and gazed at her for a moment, before returning to reading.

"Well obviously I'm not spending all that time here. I've got to catch Moriarty before it's to late."

"But what about your brother? You promised."

"He promised to let me see John, yet I have been informed I'm not allowed to leave this room. Our 'deal' is off."

Harry stayed silent, watching as Sherlock pulled a few more sheets of paper from the folder, then crumpled one and tossed it onto the ground.

"Do you mind if I stay?" she asked.

"No, I probably wont talk though."

"That's fine. I feel a bit lost at the moment..."

An hour later, and the floor was littered with crumpled papers. Sherlock was still sorting his way through the folder. So far, he had only kept about twenty pages. He scrunched another sheet up, and tossed it towards the door, where a pile was steadily growing.

"Moriarty masterminded all sorts of crinimal enterprises. Smuggling, serial killers, all sorts. He had such an extensive network that nobody ever got to him." said Sherlock, speaking the first time in an hour.

"Huh?" said Harry, rather unintelligently.

Sherlock handed her a stack of papers.

"Crumble these." he said, tossing them onto her lap.

"And chuck them around the room?"

Sherlock looked up and surveyed the room.

"It wont make any difference, but do it quietly."

Harry scrunched up the papers, and dropped them onto the floor.

Half an hour later, the nurse appeared with lunch for them both. She cast a disproving eye round the room and huffed.

"What have you been doing?" she demanded, laying the food on the table.

"Working." muttered Sherlock, ignoring the food. "Don't clean it up, I'm not done. Leave."

The nurse huffed again and left the room.

And another hour later, Sherlock was going through the final few files. Harry had eaten his lunch, and was still sitting in the chair, feeling a little stiff. There was a knock at the door, and Sherlock looked up as it opened a crack.

"Mr. Holmes? There's a woman wanting to see you."

"Who is it?" asked Sherlock.

"Say's her names Sarah -"

"Let her in, I know her." said Sherlock impatiently.

A second later, Sarah walked cautiously into the room. She waded through the papers, and sat opposite Harry. They exchanged suspicious smiles, and then the room lapsed into silence. A minute later, after Sarah had finished examining the full extent of the crumpled papers Sherlock had thrown away, she turned to him.

"Hi, how are you doing then?" she asked.

"Fine." snapped Sherlock, throwing another paper at the door.

Another cautious glance at Harry from Sarah.

"I'm Harry Watson, John's brother." she said, feeling an explanation was needed.

"Sarah, John's... erm... friend." said Sarah, nodding slightly.

"I guess you know Sherlock then?" asked Harry.

"Only slightly, we met once..." Sarah trailed off.

Another silence.

"So, what are you doing?" asked Sarah.

Sherlock shot her a cold look.

"Sorting out."

"Oh, right. Obviously."

Sherlock carefully placed the last file onto his pile of about fifty papers, and placed them in the folder, then sat back and examined Sarah and Harry with a contented twitch of the lips.

"Any reason your here, Sarah." he asked, grey eyes reading her soul.

"I actually wanted to know what happened... I mean, obviously something did. Otherwise you and John wouldn't be in hospital."

Sherlock sighed in a long suffering way.

"John and I were hunting down a bomber. We went to a swimming pool, and got blown up."

"Oh."

"John's going to fine, Sherlock's paying for the treatment." said Harry, seeing Sarah frown.

"Mycroft, actually." snapped Sherlock.

"Oh right, Mycroft...?"

"My brother. British government."

Another awkward silence.

"I'm surprised they let you in here." said Harry, grasping at straws.

"Well, they wouldn't let me see John. There's three guards outside his room. So I thought I would see how Sherlock was..."

"How many guards outside my room?"

"Four."

Sherlock's lips twitched again, and he gazed intently at the door.

"Then escaping will be easy. I need your help, Harry."

"Escaping?" asked Sarah.

"Yes, Sarah, escaping. Do you really think I would sit here while a crazy bomber runs around London, trying to kill John and me? Much better to go out and get him, before he gets us."

"What do you need me to do?" asked Harry.

"Oh, just come in here at ten tomorrow, and say that I've disappeared."

"Right." Harry checked her watch. "I really should be going anyway."

"Of course, if you go back to the flat, can you take the fingers out of the freezer?"

"Fish fingers?" asked Sarah, sounding a little unsure.

"No."

Harry nodded, and hurriedly left the room.

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><p><strong>All done. Next chapter, Sherlock shall make his escape, and starting looking for Moriarty. I'm begging you to review! It's feeling rather lonely at the moment... <strong>


	7. The Escape

**Okay, another chapter now up. I'm sorry for any errors (grammatical or medical) that I make. Enjoy!**

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><p>Sherlock gave the room a careful look. He needed to make sure everything was just right, otherwise, his escape would fail, and alert Mycroft to his plans. He needed to get out of here, or he was sure to die of boredom. He allowed himself a thin lipped smile, before wiping it away, and arranging the bed covers, just right. Then he settled himself down, and waited. He was sure Harry wouldn't thank him for this mild manipulation. But it could hardly be called 'manipulation' as he had given her all the facts. Almost. He waved his thoughts aside. Hopefully he had judged Harry's nature correctly. He glanced at his watch. Five more minutes...<p>

At a minute and forty two seconds past ten, Harry hurried in, and froze on the threshold. She stared at him for several seconds, the frowned. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and gave a slight nod.

"Quick! He's gone!" Harry shouted, her voice a little rough.

Two of his four guards immediately rushed into the room, only to see Sherlock seated serenely on his bed. They glanced from Sherlock to Harry.

"She must be intoxicated." said Sherlock steadily, playing the slight uneasiness in his voice to perfection.

The guards turned to Harry.

"N-no! I'm not! He's lying, I swear!" she shouted angrily, shaking a fist at Sherlock. "Wait 'til I get you!"

The guards grabbed Harry by her arms, and dragged her down the corridor, towards the exit. Sherlock smiled, then drew out his phone, and pressed the screen. He then jumped a little clumsily out of bed, and wobbled to the doorway, unseen by the two remaining guards. He threw his phone down the corridor, just as it began to beep with a countdown. The two police officers heard the beeping, and saw something lying on the ground. They immediately rushed over, obviously being deceived into thinking it was some kind of bomb. Sherlock resisted from sniggering as he slipped down the corridor, and to freedom.

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><p>Harry was pushed out of the hospital, rather forcefully. She landed heavily, and then slowly picked herself up, ignoring the stares from passers by. The two police men had already disappeared back into the hospital, and she guessed she wouldn't be welcome for a few hours. She couldn't believe Sherlock had tricked her like that. Well actually, she could. It was just the sort of cheating, dirty, underhand thing he would do. That look of wide-eyed innocence on his face when he had accused her of being under, was one that would only fool the dimmest of police officers. Still, he had to deal with the other two guards. She half hoped he would succeed, because then she would be able to have a 'chat'. But if he failed, that wouldn't do his over large ego to much harm. She crossed to a nearby bench, and sat down, watching the doors of the hospital closely.<p>

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><p>Sherlock slipped through the corridors of the hospital, graceful and catlike. He attracted a few stares. Wearing the white hospital pyjamas, and covered in bruises, he wasn't looking at his best. He winced slight with each step. His rib hurt, but it would not keep him in a hospital bed. He just needed to find Harry. She would be waiting for him. He was sure of that. But he needed to word his speech to her carefully, or he could end up with a few new bruises. From the little he had seen of John's sister, he knew she was violent, and quick to anger. But, she could be reasoned with. Hopefully. The alcohol obviously has something to do with it, and then, her nature obviously wasn't pacifist. He walked easily into the waiting room, which was already crammed full of people. A receptionist watched him with only mild interest as he passed through the doors of the hospital. He spotted Harry sitting on a bench, a little way from the doors. She had half risen, but as he turned his steps toward her, she sank back into a sitting position. Sherlock primly seated himself next to her, and then allowed the silence to stretch on. Eventually Harry either decided what to say, or calmed herself down enough to say it. Sherlock guessed by her clenched jaw, it was the latter. This was going to be unrehearsed.<p>

"What do you want?" she said, voice tight with anger.

"I want the keys to my flat, if you please." said Sherlock lightly.

"What! After accusing me of being dunk? Why would I want to give you them? Your better locked up in the hospital."

Sherlock gave her a frown. Harry looked away, and failed to notice Sherlock slipping a hand into her pocket, and pulling out a twenty pound note. Stealing those badges from Lestrade had been good practise.

"Well obviously you weren't. Anybody could have seen that, if you were, there would have been more slurring and-"

"Okay, okay. I get the idea. Still, you could have warned me."

"Then you would not have preformed it correctly."

Harry raised her eyebrows, then fished around in her pocket, and hurled the keys at Sherlock. He caught them without blinking, and stood.

"I need to get changed out of these." he said, giving Harry a slight nod.

He strode to the road, and after several tries, flagged a taxi. Not many seemed keen to pick up a tall man in white clothes and covered in bruises.

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><p>Sherlock pushed the key into the lock of 221b Baker street. After a moment of struggle, he opened the door, and pushed inside, staying as silent as possible. Mycroft would soon know of his escape, and be on the look out for him. The first place he would look, was obviously the flat. Sherlock only intended to grab some clothes, and then leave, for one night at least. Sherlock certainly didn't intend to stay away from his flat for long. He rushed up the stairs, dodging the places that would creak. Then he opened his flat door, and walked cautiously in. A quick glance round told him that Mycroft hadn't planted any new cameras. He strode in, pushing the door shut with his foot. The folder he had sorted out the day before was lying on the sofa, where Harry had tossed it. And on the kitchen worktop was the bowl of human fingers she had gotten out of the freezer for him. Sherlock gave a slight grunt of content, and poured the fingers into a plastic bag, before sealing it, and then dropping it back on the work top. He then hurried into his room, and stripped out of the hateful hospital clothes.<p>

A few minutes later he was standing by the door, long coat firmly buttoned up to his chin, and blue scarf wrapped round his neck. He had left a carefully calculated amount of evidence, not wanting to worry anybody. Harry would be questioned, and say that Sherlock went to the flat. The hospital clothes were discarded on the bed. He had also taken some money from John's wallet, which he had found in the kitchen table. His own was probably lying in some police office evidnece box, along with the clothes he had been wearing. He really would have to get another set... Slamming the door, he locked it, before rushing down the stairs and onto the street, flagging a taxi.

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><p><strong>All done. I hope you guys enjoyed it. I want to get the plot moving a little faster now. Next chapter up in a week... ish. Advice always welcome<strong>


	8. Return

**Hopefully the last of the boring chapters! I think the plot is ready to launch. Thank you for the reviews! They make me beam like an idiot for several hours. Hope you like it!**

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><p>Lestrade paced his office. It was early morning, and London was still only just waking up. No such luck for him though. He had been up since five in the morning, calling round and trying to get some kind of intelligence. Intelligence on where Sherlock Holmes was. He had disappeared yesterday, at noon, and not been seen since. Lestrade wasn't particularly worried about him, but there were several reasons he wanted the man. His brother, Mycroft, had been harassing him over the fact Sherlock had escaped under the noses of four police officers, and half a hospital that had been warned to watch out for him. Then, his flatmate would be waking up soon, and everybody concerned, except Harry, thought it wise that Sherlock be with him when he awoke. He was probably closest person to the ex army doctor, and would be able to explain what happened.<p>

But, if Lestrade hadn't known that Sherlock could be in some kind of danger, he wouldn't have bothered looking for the consulting detective. After all, it was hardly pressing, and he had more important matters to attend to. Somebody had committed suicide, and he needed to track their family. He sighed, tossing the report onto the table, and glancing out the window. He also had to look into the matter of this Moriarty, whom Sherlock insisted would be trying another move at some point.

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><p>Sherlock sighed, stretching out on the uncomfortable bed. It was nothing like his own at 221b. It was half the size. The sheets and quilts were scratchy, and the mattress far to soft. He sighed again. This place was almost as bad as the hospital. He glanced at the cloak on the bedside table, and was pleased to find it was five past seven. He sat up, and clambered out the bed with very little grace. His rib was making some moves difficult, not that he would ever admit it.<p>

He hurried down to the dining room of the crappy hotel he was staying in. He couldn't afford anything fancy. The dining room was alright. Open and light. A few people were already sitting at tables, eating breakfast. Sherlock scowled to himself and sat down. Today, he planned to go back to the flat, even if it meant risking capture.

He glanced over at a couple who were several tables away. They were newly married, that much was obvious by happy, yet slightly tired expressions on their faces. And the lady wore a new ring. Sherlock sighed gloomily, there was nothing interesting to deduce about them. Nor anybody else for that matter. One man had been a fight with his wife, and come here for the night. Another lady had met her secret lover here the night before. Then there was a family of five who came from France, and were enjoying a holiday in London, though the husband was to tight pocketed to pay for a proper hotel.

Sherlock looked disdainfully over at the small selection of cheap food the hotel had on offer. Even_ if_ he had been hungry, nothing would have tempted him. He stood abruptly - causing several gazes to flick over to him, and then quickly look away - and marched the the receptionists desk. He dumped the ninety two pounds his rooms had cost on the table.

"Thank you, sir. Did you enjoy your visit?"

"Not really no." he said vaguely.

"I'm sorry to hear that." said the women meekly, cashing the money.

Sherlock turned sharply on his heels, and marched off.

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><p>It was ten in the morning, and Harry sat next her brother, watching his chest rise and fall more irregularly. The doctor's had said he would be waking in a few hours. But due to the traumatic event in which he had been injured, he might panic. Apparently they had decided that <em>Sherlock <em>should be the one with him, not her. She had fumed inwardly at this, pleased that Sherlock had vanished without a trace.

Her gaze was drawn from the wall as John gave a muffled groan. She sat, eyes fixed on his face. His eye lids were flickering, and his breath coming jerkily. She considered ringing for a doctor, after all, they knew best, but decided against it. They would certainly shoo her out, and she hated feeling uninvolved.

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><p>Sherlock decided to walk to Baker Street. It wasn't far, if he took the right route. And taking a cab left evidence for Mycroft. Soon he was quietly opening the door, and slipping up the staircase, not wanting to wake Mrs. Hudson. It was only seven forty, and a Sunday. He avoided the creaking steps, and soon had slipped into his flat. It was deserted, as he had expected. Flinging himself onto the sofa, Sherlock closed his eyes for an instant.<p>

It turned out that he closed his eyes for more than an instant. Because when he opened them, Mycroft was seated primly on John's chair, idly reading a newspaper. Sherlock sat up abruptly, and scowled at his brother. He should have known Mycroft would check here again. It was a stupid mistake, all those drugs the doctors had been giving him obviously were no good for the brain.

"What do you want, Mycroft." he demanded, trying not to let his surprise show.

"To come with me."

"Back to hospital? No. I'm not going back, and you can't make me."

Mycroft set the newspaper down, and pick up his umbrella, setting it on his lap.

"I could, if I really wanted to, but that is not the reason I want you to return to the hospital. Your flatmate will be waking up soon, and I expect he will want to see you." Mycroft gave a thin lipped smile, and rose.

Sherlock cleared his face of any emotion, and stood, silently following Mycroft out of the room. He needed to get these drugs out of his system, they were obviously clouding his judgement. Normally he would never follow Mycroft, knowing he was going back into a hospital.

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><p>They climbed into a black Mercedes, and the car silently slid off down the street.<p>

"What time is it?" asked Sherlock.

"Almost ten." said Mycroft cordially.

Then the silence stretched on until the sleek car pulled up outside the hospital. Sherlock hurriedly excited, and walked swiftly up to the hospital doors. He waited for a brief instant on the threshold, waiting for Mycroft to catch up, before striding in. He glanced a little curiously round reception, taking note of all the people there. Coughing children, sniffling infants, hysterical women. They were all there. On his exit, he hadn't had much time to exmine the interior of his prison.

Mycroft led the way down a long, boring, white corridor, and then up a staircase to the private rooms. Soon they were standing outside 's room.

"In you go. I'll warn you that Harriet is already there." said Mycroft, before walking stiffly back down the corridor, umbrella swinging slightly.

Sherlock pushed the door open, and was greeted by a snarling Harry.

"What are _you _doing here?" she snapped, half rising.

"Don't bother to get up." said Sherlock, crossing the room in a few strides, and sitting opposite Harry. Ignoring her, he examined his friend.

He didn't look to bad. A bit bruised, but he'd been patched up. That was all that mattered. Lestrade had said there was all manner of things that could surface when the man woke. But Sherlock didn't like the idea of John waking up, and not remembering him. So he didn't think about it.

"What are you doing here?" asked Harry, breaking through Sherlock's thoughts.

"I've come to see John. You do realise you repeated yourself?" he said simply, giving her a long suffering look.

"Your in big trouble, you know?"

"I'm easily forgiven."

"Oh right._ Saint_ Sherlock." she sneered.

"P_lease_. People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." scoffed Sherlock, feeling a slight pleasure in tormenting John's sister.

"And what is _that _supposed to mean?" she snarled.

"You are perfectly aware of your problems, Harriet Watson."

Harry opened his mouth to shout a retort, but was cut of by a feeble moan.

"Sherlock?"

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><p><strong>There. A titchy cliffy, but nothing to serious. Updated in about a week again. <strong>

**Review! (=**


	9. Second is First

**Next chapter! John wakes up, and we see the _second _murder. Enjoy.**

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><p>Sherlock immediately looked down, and saw that John's eyes had opened a slit, and he was peering blearily up. Sherlock didn't say anything, after all, what could he say? Pretty much every option just sounded far to cliché. He was more relived than he could, or would, say to see that his friend was okay.<p>

"Sherlock? Your alive?" asked John hopefully, stretching out a trembling hand.

"Yes, I'm alive. I'm fine," he frowned, gently pushing John's hand away from his face. "What about you?"

John breathed deeply through his nose.

"Just about okay. A bit stiff." he said finally, still gazing up at Sherlock.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, but it disappeared quickly.

"Moriarty got away." he said.

John mouthed a curse.

"That's... Well, not good."

"Bit not good." Sherlock agreed with the trace of another smile.

There was a comfortable silence, and Sherlock looked up, realising that Harry was glaring spifully at him. John turned to see where Sherlock was looking, and froze.

"Ah. Hello Harry." he said, stress plain in his voice.

"John, good to see your awake." she said, equally tense.

Sherlock watched with mild interest, aware he was receiving the full brunt of Harry's angry looks. Obviously she blamed him for something... Though what, he couldn't tell. Despite having very little social experience, it was easy to see that John wasn't pleased to see Harry, and she was unsure of what to do.

"So, did Lestrade find any evidence on where Moriarty might be?" asked John, deciding the best plan was to ignore his sister.

"Unfortunately not. I only got out of hospital yesterday, and I haven't visited the scene yet..." said Sherlock.

John raised his eyebrows.

"You... didn't visit the scene?" he asked.

"No. To be honest, I escaped from hospital. They wanted to keep me in a week." said Sherlock cautiously.

"Sherlock Holmes being honest, that's news to me." snapped Harry.

John skilfully ignored her, giving Sherlock an apologetic eyebrow twitch.

"Alright. What are your injuries?" he asked.

"Nothing to bad. Some bruising, and a broken rib."

John shrugged.

"And me?"

"You had internal bleeding, but it wasn't that serious. A very nasty bang on the head, but you don't seem to have amnesia or brain damage, so over all, your in better health than me." said Sherlock.

The exchanged smiles, though Sherlock's was hardly sincere.

"John?" Harry broke the silence.

John slowly turned to look at her, eyes wary. Sherlock also watched her closely, though out the corner of his eye.

"What?" asked John.

"I would like a word, alone..." she said frostily.

John glanced from Sherlock to Harry, frowning. He was about to say something, when Sherlock stood.

"I actually want to get back to the flat." he said vaguely, heading towards the door.

"When will you come back?" asked John.

"Erm... Later today." said Sherlock, glancing back.

He opened the door, and was gone. Leaving Harry and John alone.

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><p>There was a strained silence between the two siblings.<p>

"What did you want to say, Harry?" asked John, keeping his voice neuteral.

Things had been strained before the last meeting, and after it, a relationship had been almost non existent.

Harry hesitated, her expression becoming a little desperate. She quickly pulled herself together, and scowled.

"I want you to move in with me. You have to stop mixing with... _Him._" she said stonily, managing to put only anger and spite into the sentence.

John only gaped at her.

"W-what? No. I wont. Firstly, if I moved in with you, we'd murder each other, and two... Sherlock's my friend."

"Your _friend?_ Does he have friends?"

"I never said he considered me as a friend." said John coldly. He wasn't sure if Sherlock considered him as a friend. He had shown that to some degree, he cared. But whether that was just on a 'he's my flatmate, and I need him to pay the bills' level, or on a 'he's my friend' he couldn't tell.

"So your in a one sided friendship with a psychopath?" asked Harry incredulously.

John let out a snarl.

"He's not. Now stop winding me up Harry, I could really do without it."

Harry however, didn't back down.

"Even you know it's true. He's a psychopath, and if he hasn't already, he'll kill somebody." said Harry triumphantly.

John stared coldly at her. His face now devoid of anger, but instead a deep, cold hate.

"Harriet, if you could please stop insulting my friend, I would very much appreciate it. If it wasn't for Sherlock, I would have had to move out of London. If it wasn't for Sherlock, I would still be limping. And if it wasn't for Sherlock, I would have been killed several times."

Harry scoffed, but didn't respond. Their staring match was broken by the door opening, and an anxious throat being cleared. John thanked with all his heart whoever it was that was there. He would even be pleased to see Anderson. However, it wasn't Anderson, which was probably a good thing, instead, John turned to see an anxious Lestrade standing in the doorway.

"Oh, erm. Do you want me to go?" he asked, shuffling back.

"No, Lestrade. Don't worry. Harry was just leaving, weren't you." said John firmly, patting the chair Sherlock had recently vacated.

Lestrade nodded politely at Harry as she rose and stalked out the room, then seated himself beside John.

"Good to see your okay." said Lestrade.

"Yeah." John smiled warmly, but Lestrade was busy staring at the ceiling.

He finally spoke up, rather nervously, John thought.

"John, you know... That Sherlock's okay, right?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes..." said John uncertainly.

"Well, yesterday, Sherlock went missing," said Lestrade gently. "Nobodies seen him since..."

"Wh- hang on. So what was Sherlock doing in here a few minutes ago?" he asked feeling extremely confused.

Lestrade started, and stared.

"Sherlock... was in here?"

"Yes, but now I think about it, he said he'd escaped from hospital yesterday." said John, smiling.

"That little... I can't believe it. I've got almost the whole police force looking for him! Mycroft said he could be in some kind of danger."

John shrugged.

"Well he's not. I hear Moriarty slipped through for fingers."

"Yeah, no sign of him. I'll get Sherlock to come to the scene, but I doubt he'll find anything. It's been almost a week, and it's rained twice."

John nodded, and Lestrade glanced down at his watch.

"Well, I'll be going now. I only wanted to tell you that Sherlock was missing, and now I know he's not..." he shrugged. "When will you be out of this place?"

"Couple of days." said John.

Lestrade nodded, and left.

John sat back, trying not to think about Moriarty... Now he had nothing else to think about, it was all to easy to relive those last few moments at the pool.`He would do everything in his power to help Sherlock catch Moriarty before something else happened.

* * *

><p>The area had been chaos when the women collapsed and died. Now police tapes surrounded the area, and nearby area was empty. Police cars filled the car park outside, and officers surrounded the scene. People on their way out the airport tried to look, without appearing too. Lestrade was inside the sectioned off area, crouching over the women. Sally Donovan was at his shoulder, watching motionlessly, her eyes following Lestrade's every move.<p>

Heathrow had ground to a halt, all the people had been waiting to board their plane had been told to go to the far end of the room. Life at Heathrow had carried on, simply without half a waiting room, and a few burger bars. All the nearby shops had been closed, and the staff sent away. All witnesses were in a huddled line on a bench, along with a sobbing child, who had been the women's son. Lestrade stood up, and beckoned Anderson forward, who gave the body a careful examination.

"Can't see anything obvious. Some kind of heart attack I guess." he said finally.

Lestrade nodded.

"The son says that she was feeling dizzy, vomited, and then had a seizure."

Anderson shrugged.

"Jack, can you take the kid to his grandparents. He needs to calm down." said Lestrade, addressing one of the officers that was blocking the scene from pedestrians. He nodded, and marched to the sobbing child, silently picking him up, and carrying him out the door.

Lestrade turned to the line of quivering winessess.

"Right, you can go. Though if you want to give your phone numbers incase we need more information, then give them to Sergeant Donovan." he nodded, before striding out of the airport. This particular death was normal, _natural, _not anything he should bother himself about. He had to get onto helping Sherlock Holmes find Moriarty.

* * *

><p><strong>Another chapter complete. I just wanted to add that bit at the end so I could get the plot going, which it finally is, but it'll be a while before something else happens, but in the meantime, SH &amp; JW will start looking for Moriarty. It could be a very long time until I update, as November is National Novel Writing Month (nanowrimo) and I've got a word count goal of 60,000 words. I might be able to update during that, but we'll see.<strong>

**Have a good day.**


	10. Side Choosing

**Another chapter for all you readers! The plot is really beginning to follow, and some interesting chapters will be forthcoming! I hope you like it! I'm really enjoying writing this fic at the moment, so I hope it's some good.**

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><p>It was two days after John had woken up, and finally both he and Sherlock were safely seated in the flat, drinking tea, criticizing TV, and reading the newspaper. So far, they were both content to relax, but Sherlock was already growing restless. He had found some amusement in a experiment to do with fingers, or rather, he was doing five different experiments with five different fingers. John had decided to ignore him, favouring this to shooting the wall.<p>

Neither of them had talked about the pool, or Moriarty. John felt extremely uncomfortable with the whole idea, and Sherlock, for once seemed to understand. Maybe he felt the same, maybe not. But John knew that sooner or later, Sherlock would bring it up. And it turned out to be sooner, not later.

It was a cold, blustery morning, rain was in the air. Sherlock was in his dressing gown, huddled over his microscope. John was sitting on the sofa, reading an old, battered book. He suddenly became aware that Sherlock was watching him, a rather uncanny feeling.

"Sherlock?" he asked, without looking up.

Things had been a little awkward between them, neither knowing how to broach the conversation of Moriarty. John was also thinking about what Harry had said, though he didn't believe a word, or course he didn't, something about it made him squirm.

"John, we both know that a little chat might be in order," said Sherlock bluntly. "We'll go to Angelo's for the lunch, and talk."

John swallowed.

"Okay... Will this be about... Him?"

"Yes." said Sherlock shortly.

* * *

><p>John had insisted on walking down to Angelo's. It was windy, wet, and overall Sherlock didn't see the point. He had given up sighing though, because John ignored him. He knew John didn't want to talk about Moriarty, but they had to. Moriarty would be planning his next move. And Sherlock thought he had some idea of what it might be.<p>

Soon they were seated in his special place at Angelo's, John leaning against the window, eyes closed. Angelo hadn't gone for the candle, considering it was lunch, something that Sherlock was glad about, things were awkward enough as it was. And the smoke from the candle always clouded his thoughts.

"What do you want?" asked Angelo happily, slapping Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Nothing, what about you, John?" said Sherlock steadily.

John opened his eyes, and glanced at the menu.

"Greek feta cheese roll please." he said, returning to his original position.

Angelo left, and Sherlock watched John intently. He could understand why John didn't want to talk, in a way. But they absolutely _had _to.

Angelo arrived with the feta cheese thing, and John began to slowly eat. Ignoring Sherlock.

"John. I'm going after him." said Sherlock when John was about halfway through his meal.

"I know."

"You don't have to come."

"I know."

"I'll do whatever it takes."

John looked up and sighed.

"I _know _Sherlock. I'm not a complete idiot."

Sherlock gave a half shrug, earning a slight glare from John.

The detective couldn't understand his flatmate. 'I know' wasn't a very helpful piece of data. Did that mean John wouldn't help him? Or, would he come along. Or even, try to stop him. Sherlock didn't know, and he felt slightly uneasy.

John finished, and they sat in silence for a long while. Sherlock watching John out the corner of his eye. Angelo cleared the plate, and still neither of them moved. Finally Sherlock got bored of trying to read John's face, and stood.

"Come on, let's get back to the flat." he said, dragging John upright, and hauling him out of the restaurant. John followed without question, eyes glazed over. He was obviously thinking. But what about, Sherlock couldn't tell.

A good twenty minutes later, they were both in the flat again. John sipping a cup of tea, and Sherlock trying not to watch him. He had to let John decide on his own. But he really did wish he would hurry up.

"I can't get him out of my head." said John suddenly.

Sherlock jerked into a sitting position. Watching him intently with bright grey eyes.

"I just... He's going to do something else... I can tell." said John, chewing his lip.

"I'll stop him." said Sherlock calmly.

John looked at him properly for the first time that day. Examining him closely. There was a long pause.

"When do we start?"

Sherlock's heart bounded at the word 'we'. He had resigned himself to the fact that John didn't want to have any more part in Moriarty related adventures. Now, he was proved wrong. And actually pleased about it. Though he wouldn't admit it, he liked having John around. Some sanity in an insane world.

John gave a chuckle at Sherlock's slightly confused expression.

"You thought I wouldn't help?" he asked, grinning.

Sherlock nodded sheepishly.

"For a genius, you can be an idiot a lot of the time." said John, rolling his eyes.

* * *

><p>The next day, they were down a Scotland Yard, waiting for Lestrade. He had asked Sherlock to come down and talk about Moriarty.<p>

Lestrade's office door opened, and he silently beckoned them in. Sherlock rose, stepping lightly in, followed by John.

"Good to see you both alive." said Lestrade, shutting the door and gesturing at two chairs.

"Yes, all very nice. Do you have any data?" asked Sherlock snappily.

"Okay, okay. Just trying to make some small talk." Lestrade huffed.

Sherlock's lip curled, but he stayed silent.

"Right," Lestrade sat down, gave John a smile before turning to a folder on his desk. "Moriarty has left very little evidence in his wake. Almost everything we know about him is from these past cases. We do think he was involved a few other cases, before this."

Sherlock nodded, pressing his finger tips together. His liquid silver eyes fixed intently on Lestrade.

"Erm. Our main concern is to find out where Moriarty is now..." Lestrade trailed off, and shook his head. "Why am I bothering exactly? You already know more than I do. Just, if you get any leads, tell me, okay."

"Wise decision Lestrade. I'll inform you of any developments." said Sherlock, lips twitching.

Lestrade sighed, shrugging, and picked up a thick file, flipping through it's pages.

"What's that?" asked Sherlock sharply, reaching forward and snatching it.

"Sherlock! Nothing to do with Moriarty. Just a suicide." snapped Lestrade, trying to rip it from Sherlock's grip.

Sherlock frowned, flipping through the pages, totally ignoring Lestrade's angry tirade.

John gently patted his arm.

"Sherlock, I think you've got enough to be getting on with, right?"

"W- Oh alright It's only a suicide I suppose." said Sherlock, flinging the fikle back at Lestrade and standing. "Why do cases come in groups?" he asked the world in general as he stalked out the office.

"Nice to see he's back to normal." said Lestrade with a deep breath, picking up the folder and placing it carefully on his desk.

"Yeah. If you get any news on Moriarty, just say. We'll need all the information we can."

Lestrade nodded, and John followed Sherlock out his office.

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><p><strong>Nothing very exciting, but the next one should be better. I hope your enjoying! Please review, I'm <em>desperate <em>for opinions. **


	11. Wrong

**A sooner update than I first thought, so that's good! I'm afraid it's another plot builder, nothing exciting. But, the next chapter _will_ be more exciting. **

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><p>John and Sherlock walked slowly down the street, on their way back to the flat after visiting Lestrade.<p>

"Where do we start?" asked John.

"We need to wait. For the time being at least. I don't think Moriarty will make a move for a little while."

"Wait? Are you feeling okay Sherlock?"

Sherlock sniffed.

"We can't do anything for the time being."

"Well, if you say so... Why were you so interested in that suicide?"

"Remember what happened last time the police said there was a suicide? Well, I'm looking out for anything that might have some connection with Moriarty."

They reached the flat, and Sherlock unlocked the door, shoving it open and stalking up the stairs, leaving John to close and lock the door behind him.

* * *

><p>It was three days after the visit to Lestrade, and nothing had cropped up. Sherlock had spent the first day thinking, the second day lounging, and the third day bored. It was mid after noon, and Sherlock was curled on the sofa, watching John move around, picking up bits of litter left by Sherlock. His grey eyes were rather unnerving, but John had learnt just to ignore the cold stare.<p>

Sherlock's phone was pressed under his nose, and his long fingers just touching it. It had been there all day, Sherlock hoping to get some kind of call. And at twelve minutes to three, he did.

The phone only managed half a ring, before Sherlock had accepted it, and pressed the device to his ear.

"Hello?" he droned, keeping any excitement from his voice.

John paused in his tidying, and watched Sherlock's expression turn from boredom to delight.

"I'll come down." he said, voice totally at odds with his expression.

He slowly withdrew the mobile from his ear, and switched it off, then turning to John and giving him a wide smile.

"Lestrade's got something he want's us to look at. Something that could be connected to Moriarty." said Sherlock brightly, leaping to his feet.

He stepped over the coffee table, ran to the door, grabbing his coat and scarf, he turned expectantly.

"Come on, haven't go all day." he said, tossing John's coat at him.

John sighed, grabbed the coat, and followed the whirlwind that used to be Sherlock down the staircase and onto the street.

* * *

><p>Some time later, Sherlock barged into Lestrade's office, followed by John.<p>

"Well?" he demanded, glarring round, and spotting Lestrade, seated behind his desk.

"Well, remember that suicide you were looking at the other day. There have been two others."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a moment, eyes flickering.

"When and where."

"One on the day you escaped from hospital. Then another the day you came here. and then one this morning." said Lestrade. "And then, first was at home. Second on a flight to Paris, only just found him, and the last was in a public toilet."

"And the means of death?" asked Sherlock.

"Poison, though we can't be sure which one yet. It's nasty though, throwing up, seizures. We couldn't tell much from the bodies, and nobody was with them when they died."

Sherlock nodded distractedly.

"Nasty." murmured John.

"Indeed." said Lestrade.

"Anything connecting these murders?"

"We don't know that their murde-" Lestrade began.

"Anything connecting them?" snarled Sherlock.

"They all passed through Heathrow. Two on the way out, one on the way in. They were all alone when they died."

"That all?" asked Sherlock.

"I think so," he gestured at a file. "Take that back with you, it's got all the info you need."

Sherlock nodded, scooping the folder up, and promptly handed it to John.

"Do you reckon it's something to do with_ him_?" asked John anxiously.

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, even if it's not got anything to do with me."

"You mean like the cabbie?"

"At first, that had nothing to do with me, so yes." said Sherlock.

There was a moment of silence.

"Right. I'll have a look at this then." said Sherlock, glancing at the folder.

"Good. Tell me if you find anything."

"Same goes for you." said Sherlock, marching out the office, and pulling John with him.

* * *

><p>They took a cab back to the flat. Sherlock sitting on his side, breath fogging up the glass, John on the other side, clutching the folder, and staring out his own window.<p>

"Got anything?" asked John as the cab pulled up.

"Maybe. We should go and have a look round Heathrow tomorrow. I'll read that tonight." he said slowly.

Then he jumped out the cab, and vanished, leaving John to pay.

When he finally reached the flat, Sherlock was lying on the sofa with a nicotine patch fixed on his arm.

"Give me the file." he said, reaching for another patch.

John handed it to him, and sat in his chair, watching as Sherlock flipped through the pages.

Half an hour later, Sherlock was still reading, another nicotine patched added to his arm. John scowled at the sight of three patches, but couldn't exactly stop Sherlock so instead put the kettle on.

"Want one?" he asked.

"Mmm, yes." said Sherlock lazily, not even moving.

Sighing, John pulled another mug from the cupboard.

* * *

><p>He returned three minutes later, carefully carrying two mugs of tea. He placed one on the coffee table, and then sat down heavily, almost sloshing his tea everywhere.<p>

Sherlock reached out a hand without even tearing his gaze away from the folder, and after a second of hovering, grabbed the mug and brought it to his lips.

He finished it in several gulps, and set it down.

"Bit less milk next time." he said.

John rolled his eyes.

"Your welcome." he muttered under his breath.

Neither of them spoke all evening, until at nine John decided to go to bed.

"I'll see you in the morning Sherlock." he said wearily. The detective had not so much as glanced away from his manuscript all evening. Instead, sitting there. He was obsessing already, desperate to figure out what Moriarty was doing.

"We're going to the airport tomorrow, so be ready." said Sherlock briskly.

"Right, fine. Night."

Sherlock turned a page over, and his eyes began to scan and dissect every word.

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><p><strong>Right, there we are. I hope you enjoyed it! Please review, because at this rate I'm going to have more chapters than reviews! So come on people, it's not that bad is it?<strong>


	12. Heathrow

**Hey! Sorry for the long update time, but I've been working on my other fics (ones which get a _lot_ more love from the readers *hint*) But I've finally gotten round to finishing this chapter off. In this one, Sherlock tries to make some progress on Lestrade's case. (=**

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><p>Sherlock read through the night, despite reading in the dim light that came from a nearby lamp was making his eyes hurt. He had to beat Moriarty, though he still couldn't be sure it was Moriarty who was behind this. He read every detail of the file. Memorizing everything of use. There was hardly anything that he could actually go on. In fact, the most important point was that they had all passed through the airport. That was probably where the poison was administered.<p>

At this point, he didn't know whether the victims had known their fate, and accepted it. Or been forced to take the poison. They might not even have been aware that they were taking poison. The first victim had just arrived from America. She was alone when she arrived, which was at four in the morning. She went back home, and died. Then second left on a flight for Paris at six in the morning, he was also alone and died on the plane. Then the third had been found in a toilet an hour after she arrived. The poison obviously had different incubation periods. The first had taken a long while to succumb to the poison, while the third had died within an hour, maybe less. With the second it was hard to tell, as the body has been found when the plane landed.

At four in the morning, Sherlock dumped the folder on the sofa, and stood up, refusing to stretch his aching limbs. He wanted to go down to Heathrow now, in the early hours that the killer seemed to like making his or her move. He climbed the stairs to John's bedroom, and knocked loudly.

"John! Wake up. We're going out." he said.

There was muffled groan.

"Sherlock? What the hell are you doing?" demanded John's angry, yet sleepy voice.

"The killer makes his move in the early hours of the morning. Hence, we should be there in case he decides to strike again."

"Can't you go on your own? I was actually asleep."

"No, now hurry up and stop wasting time."

John huffed, but Sherlock heard him moving around the room, trying to find items of clothing. Satisfied that John was awake, Sherlock hurried back to the living room, and stretched out on the sofa while he waited for John. A few minutes later the dishevelled ex army doctor appeared, glaring.

"Good, and might I add, finally." said Sherlock, jumping to his feet.

They hurried down the stairs, making as little noise as possible. John was still only half awake, and made much more noise than was really needed. Soon they were on the street, Sherlock huddled inside his long coat, and John shivering in a sweater. It was bitterly cold, and a harsh wind blew litter down the almost deserted street.

But even at this hour, people were up and about. The sky never grew dark in London. Sherlock hailed a taxi, and they climbed in, John pointedly yawning.

"Heathrow airport." said Sherlock, nestling in his corner.

A few minutes of silence ticked by.

"So, any ideas yet?" asked John.

"Well, each of the victims was alone when they were poisoned. The poison takes different amounts of time to kill, but is the same. Each passed through Heathrow at a late hour, which could mean nothing, or could be crucial."

"Okay, and do you think they did it voluntarily?"

"I'm not sure. Can't jump to conclusions. But my original thought was that they were unaware of the poison being administered." said Sherlock.

"Okay, whatever you say. And what good will waking me up at four in the morning do?"

"We might see the killer."

John rolled his eyes.

"You wake me up, so we can go and see a killer, and maybe get killed?"

"I very much doubt we will be victims. All three died alone."

"Oh great. That's a comfort."

Sherlock smiled, pressing his cheek against the cold glass of the cab.

Soon they arrived at the airport. Sherlock jumped out, and as usual left John to pay the cabbie. Then they walked up toward the large building, a steady trickle of people going in and out.

"This is the perfect hunting ground for a murderer. Plenty of victims." said Sherlock, causing several people to glance his way, and hurry in the opposite direction. They entered the building, Sherlock giving the large waiting room a careful glance. His eyes wondered round, and he strode towards poster on a bin, examining it carefully.

John looked curiously round. There was nothing special about Heathrow. Large, light, a few shops dotted around along with rows of chairs, the luggage sorters, and the reception.

He hurried over to where Sherlock was, peering over his shoulder and reading the poster. Before he could even read the headline, Sherlock had grabbed his arm, and hauled him away.

"Sherlock, please will you stop dragging me around?"

Sherlock released his arm, but continued to walk, John trotting by his heel.

"The police truly are idiots. There have been four murders. Not three. They were just to blind to see it."

Sherlock stopped by a small coffee stand, joining the queue of tired people.

"So, what was on that poster?" asked John, glad Sherlock had the sense to get some coffee.

"A women died here, in Heathrow. Just dropped down, and by the time an ambulance got here, was dead."

"And you think she was poisoned too?"

"I know she was. Doctor's weren't sure what the cause of death was, so it had to be this poison!" exclaimed Sherlock, beaming delightedly.

Several people in the queue hurried away.

"Okay, so there have been four murders. Anything different about this one?"

"The women was not alone. She was with her two and a half year old son. It was late afternoon. On the same day you woke up."

Sherlock paused as they reached the front of the queue.

"Two coffees." he said, handing the man a fiver. John was surprised that Sherlock was paying for it himself.

A few minutes later, they were seated by the door, sipping coffee.

"So what now?" asked John.

"We wait. Look for anything suspicious." said Sherlock, blowing on his coffee.

* * *

><p>"I wish I'd brought my gun." sighed John after ten minutes of watching people walk by.<p>

Sherlock said nothing, instead tensing.

"Over there." he hissed.

John looked to where Sherlock was gazing, and saw to people making their way slowly towards the door. One pressed behind the other.

"He could easily have a gun." said Sherlock, referring to the one behind.

"I know."

A moment's tense silence as the couple passed through the doorway. Then Sherlock jumped to his feet, spilling coffee everywhere, and leapt across the waiting room towards the door. John ran after him, dropping his coffee cup as well. Sherlock was waiting by the door, covered in coffee.

"What now?"

"We follow them, and remain unseen." hissed Sherlock, slipping through the doors and fading into the night. John followed with a sigh.

* * *

><p><strong>There, I quite enjoyed writing that chapter, so I hope you enjoyed reading it. I'll try and update sooner this time... <strong>


	13. Kidnappers

**Hey! It's been ages since I updated this fic... Anyway, I'm afraid there's going to be a it on an anti climax. Enjoy! And review.**

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><p>John followed Sherlock closely as he wove through the small groups of people making their way to the airport, or on their way out of it. Their suspect was moving slowly, now next to the possible victim. Slowly, the pursued and the pursuers made their way towards the bus station. When Sherlock realised their intentions, he stopped John by throwing out his arm.<p>

"They're going to get on that bus." he hissed.

"Yes, I realised that Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head, and bounded forward.

"Sherlock!" he snapped, the the consulting detective ignored him, instead barrelling straight into their supposed killer.

John hurried forward as Sherlock easily knocked the man down. The women beside him let out a shriek, and Sherlock groaned, shaking his head. He grabbed the man's hand, and pulled him up.

"Terribly sorry. I did see you in this dark." he said, brushing the man down.

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel, and ran back to John.

"Not our killer then?" asked John.

"It's not my fault he was acting suspiciously." snapped Sherlock as they made their way back to Heathrow.

"So now what?" asked John.

"We go back and sit. It's only half four, so we've still got a while before we need to get back to the flat."

"Oh great. We get another chance to get ourselves killed."

Sherlock strode on, ignoring him. Soon they were seated again, Sherlock jiggling his knees as he scanned the room. Half an hour passed like this, and Sherlock made no move. John was just dozing off when Sherlock stood.

"Come on, nothing here." he said.

John jerked awake, and stood, following Sherlock more out of habit than anything.

"So that was a total waste of time?"

"Basically, yes."

"Next time, go alone."

"I can't, I currently have no desire to be killed, and so I need to be with you."

"But, you said the forth victim was with her son?"

"She might not have been with him when the poison was administered, or maybe the killer doesn't consider a two year old child a witnesses."

"Okay, so what now?"

"We go to Lestrade, and get him to identify the poison."

"Alright," John glanced over at Sherlock, and watched him send a text. "Isn't it a it early to be waking him?"

"Probably."

* * *

><p>They reached the flat by half past five, and sleepily climbed the stairs. Just as they were about to enter the flat, Sherlock froze.<p>

"Look." he murmured, pointing at the door which was open a crack.

They both hovered by the door, Sherlock carefully examining the door knob.

"They're still in there." he whispered, so quietly it was barely a breath of air in the stillness.

"I'll go in first." said John.

"Okay, try not to get killed." he said softly, excitement lighting up his eyes.

"I will."

John pushed the door open, and it creaked ominously. He drew a deep breath, and stepped into the room.

For several seconds, nothing happened. Then a form jumped out of the shadows, knocking John to the ground. Sherlock switched the light on.

"Stop right there." he snarled.

John's attacker froze, staring across at Sherlock, then down at John, who was sprawled on the floor.

"Mr. Holmes!" the man exclaimed, before turning to look at John. Sherlock watched him warily.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in our flat?" asked Sherlock, ready to spring into action.

"I'm officer Johnson. At a little past four this morning, I was called out. Your land lady heard people moving around, and called the police."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and dropped down beside John, examining him carefully. Johnson had known what he was doing when he hit John. He was out cold.

"It was us you idiot." snapped Sherlock irritably.

"And what were you doing up at four in the morning." said Johnson.

"We went to Heathrow in the hopes of finding the killer. Help me get him onto the sofa." said Sherlock, grabbing John under the armpits.

Together they managed to haul the unconscious army doctor onto the sofa.

"It's okay boys! Only the owner." Johnson called, and two other men appeared, one from Sherlock's room, and another from the kitchen.

"You were called out an hour and a half ago. Why are you still here?"

"Well as it was your house that had been burgled, and both you and Mr. Watson were gone, we thought we should stay in case the kidnappers returned."

"Kidnapper? You thought we were kidnapped? And you thought your kidnapper would return? Forget his comfort blanket did he?" Sherlock asked, sneering.

"We saw you were gone, and your land lady heard noises. But we were hoping for a ransom letter."

"And you didn't just think we went out?"

"Well, no offence sir, but no respectable people go out at four in the morning."

Sherlock sighed, shrugging.

He turned John's head over, and examined the bruise already forming there. The detective groaned.

"Could you have looked before you attacked him?" asked Sherlock.

Johnson shrugged uncomfortably.

"You haven't told anyone we were 'kidnapped'?"

"Not yet, sir."

Sherlock shook his head, and looked round the flat. The officers hadn't messed it up to much. A few papers were strewn across the floor. He scowled.

"Well I think you can go now. Enough damage has been done by your thoughtless action."

"Yes sir, right away." said Johnson anxiously, shuffling to the door.

He and his men hurriedly left, clattering down the stairs and probably waking the whole flat.

* * *

><p>Sherlock carefully re stacked the strewn papers, and then stood, watching John, unsure of what to do next. There was a gentle knock at the door, and he turned to see Mrs. Hudson peering through the doorway.<p>

"Sherlock! I am glad to see you. That nice man, officer Johnson, said you might have been kidnapped," she stepped into the room, and saw John sprawled on the sofa. "My goodness! What happened to him?"

"That nice man hit him round the head." said Sherlock irritably.

"Poor dear, is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"Some biscuits would be lovely, and a cup of tea."

"Alright dear, just this once because of poor Dr. Watson. But just this once, remember that."

Sherlock smirked as Mrs. Hudson retired to the kitchen.

"Goodness me dear! What have you been doing?" she asked, clattering around.

"Just an experiment." murmured Sherlock, seating himself in a chair, and drawing his long legs up to his chin. He needed to think, and however well meaning Mrs. Hudson was, he was sure she could be a little quieter.

Soon she reappeared with a cup of tea and a few stale biscuits. She handed these to Sherlock, and bustled round the room, clearing up folders, books, old cups and generally all the stuff Sherlock left in his wake.

"You really ought to keep this place cleaner. You'll catch something one of these days." she huffed.

"Please, Mrs. Hudson. Shouldn't you be getting some sleep?" asked Sherlock forcefully.

For once she took the hint.

"Alright then dear. Try and get some sleep yourself. I hope the doctor wakes up soon, poor thing." she hurried out, softly shutting the door.

Sherlock sighed in relief. Finally he could get the peace and quiet he needed. He reached for the nicotine patches.


	14. Coffee

_Okay. Another long update time I'm afraid! This fic is drawing to a close now. I'm afraid this chapter is pretty short as I job writers block with it. Hope its okay._

* * *

><p>When John woke Sherlock was lying on his back on the floor, one arm across his chest, and the other one stretched out across the floor and past his head. The detective's eyes were open, and flickering around the room, so John's brief fear that Sherlock had been assassinated was quelled.<p>

"Finally awake, I see." drawled Sherlock, leaving a long pause between each word.

"Yes. What actually happened?"

"The police, of course. Thought we'd been kidnapped and were waiting for a ransom note." Sherlock snorted derisively.

It was about seven in the morning, according the clock that hung on the wall. But John had never completely trusted it since Sherlock decided to take it apart.

The detective suddenly jumped to his feet, and pulled his phone from his pocket. After a moment, he gave a angry huff.

"What?" asked John, rubbing his aching head tenderly.

"Lestrade. Told me to 'stop bloody texting in the middle of the night'." quoted Sherlock.

_I did say it was a bit to early._ Thought John.

"Anyway, we're to go down to the yard at noon." sniffed Sherlock, stowing his phone back in his jacket.

John nodded, and went to put the kettle on

* * *

><p>At midday exactly, Sherlock strode into Scotland yard, John trotting behind him. He brushed past Sally without a word, and entered Lestrade's office.<p>

"Ah Sherlock, good to se-"

"Have you got any information on the poison?" Sherlock asked briskly, cutting the detective inspector off.

"Oh... Uhm, yes we do. Apparently it was hemlock..."

"Cicuta douglasii, interesting." muttered Sherlock.

"And, it was administered in a large dosage, but not through an injection. The victims ate it." Lestrade continued.

"I want you to tell me when you find the next body." Sherlock snapped, bringing out his phone with a flourish.

"What! Hang on a moment. Whoever said you could give orders?"

"Do you want my help or not?" said Sherlock, eyes glued to the screen of his phone, tapping away.

Lestrade sighed.

"Fine, I'll call."

"Text if you please." said Sherlock, hurrying from the office.

John gave an apologetic smile, though he supposed that Lestrade was used to Sherlock by this time, and hurried after the detective.

* * *

><p>"So d'you think they consciously took the hemlock?" asked John in the cab home.<p>

He knew that Sherlock liked to bounce ideas around, and a question would often help kick start his brain.

"No. Obviously not. One was found in a place it would be impossible to force feed poison without being noticed. And the murderer would be foolish to let the victim go, if they were aware that the poison had been administered." Sherlock said quickly, only just pausing for breath.

John grunted as though that were obvious.

"So that tells us that the poison was probably in something people buy and eat."

"Or drink." said John.

"Indeed. And the murderer would have to see the victim, so as to know whether they were alone or not. So it would probably be a shop of some kind, where the person who made the food could tamper with it." Sherlock continued.

John tried his best to think of something, but he couldn't.

"It would have to be a small shop. One where there was only one person serving. The murderer. And it has to be easy to tell if somebody is going to eat, or drink it by themselves. So most food is ruled out... I suppose sandwich could be an option, but there all wrapped up these days. It's things that are made on the spot."

Sherlock frowned, obviously trying to figure the problem out. John didn't have a clue what the food could be. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock was talking gibberish.

"Most of the victims died really early in the morning." he pointed out.

Sherlock's frown deepened.

"What do you eat or drink early in the morning?" he demanded of the world in general.

"Tea and coffee." John said.

A slight hum from Sherlock, silver eyes unfocused and far away.

"Tea and coffee would be a likely candidate. Easy to make, easy to introduce poison to. And how many people share a cup of tea?" Sherlock mused aloud.

The he seemed to tense.

"Oh course. Simple." he breathed.

"What?"

"Driver. Turn round. We need to go to Heathrow." Sherlock barked.

The cabbie grumbled, as they were almost at Baker Street, but did as instructed.

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, John had paid the cab driver and extortionate about of money, and then jobbed to catch up with Sherlock.<p>

"Who do you think it is?" he asked a little breathlessly.

"Remember that coffee shop?"

John blanched.

"No? Really?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I believe so. We just have to check to see if the vendor has a license. It would be just like the police not to check..."

So they entered Heathrow, and headed straight to the small shop. Sherlock withdrew Lestrade's card with a flourish, and waved it before the shop owners face.

"Your licence, is you please." he demanded.

There was a moment of silence, while the vendor stood frozen. Then he reached under the counter, and drew out some papers. Sherlock raised his eye brows, and took the papers.

He flicked through them, then smirked.

"These a fake." he said.

The vendor gaze a snarl, and made to get away.

Sherlock made to stop him, and received a face full of coffee, while the owner fled across Heathrow. Spluttering and hissing in pain, Sherlock staggered back to be steadied by John.

"Quick, after him!" Sherlock shouted, tearing off after the coffee seller.

There was a stunned crowd who had watched the whole series of events. And they watched as John ran off after Sherlock, calling his name wildly. None of them got their coffee's.


	15. Accident

**Okay, a long overdue chapter here. It came as a pleasant surprise to find out that Sherlock starts today, but I had really wanted to get this fic done before then. So expect many chapters over the day. I just wanted to get it finished, so it may be a bit rushed, and I think Sherlock OOC, but hey...**

* * *

><p>As John sprinted after Sherlock, he wasn't particularity worried for the detective's safety. After all. Sherlock was incredibly fast, and would catch the murderer before he even reached the doors.<p>

The crowd parted with screams as the two men pushed their way through. John cursed under his breath, speeding up when he saw Sherlock reach inside his coat and draw out _his _gun. He was even more annoyed when Sherlock ignored his command to drop the weapon, instead firing a single shot, and causing all hell to break loss.

For a genius, Sherlock could do some incredibly stupid things. The crowd was now screaming, and running wildly about in an effort to get away from Sherlock.

The young detective reached the doors, and dashed through, disappearing from sight. By the time an angry John reached the entrance, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He growled under his breath, and made a hasty exit before the police could sort themselves out.

It might be best is Lestrade never knew of their involvement in that particular escapade.

John put as much distance between himself and the commotion at Heathrow, walking as quickly as he could.

Once he was out of sight, he slowed his pace, hailing a cab and wondering where to go next. Sherlock could be anywhere. He eventually decided on going back to he flat. Sherlock could probably look after himself. Probably. And once he had caught the killer, he would return.

So he told the cabbie where to go, and leant back, sinking into the soft seats of the taxi. He closed his eyes, relaxing for a moment. It felt strangely nice not to have Sherlock tapping furiously on his phone beside him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock raced after the murderer, surprised by how fast the man actually was. He didn't dare risk another shot now he was in London, heaving with shoppers, tourists and cars. He pushed roughly past a group of friends, earning a few angry shouts in his direction.<p>

The killer wasn't gaining any ground, and seemed to be tiring. Sherlock just felt the exhilaration of running, chasing. Normally he would say who the killer was, and that would be the end of it. No 'legwork' as Mycroft would put it.

This was much more exciting.

It was always more fun. He risked a glance behind him, and was slightly disconcerted to find John was not following him. His eyes snapped back to the murderer. He could worry about John later.

Then the killer made a rash decision, in a split second, he turned from the pavement and rushed across the road. There was the sound of screeching breaks and horns. Sherlock saw that the killer hadn't been run over.

So without a moment to consider, he leapt after the man.

It didn't end so well.

One moment he was running, the next something had smashed into his legs, causing him to fall heavily. His head smacked onto the curb, and he heard distant screams. Everything was going fuzzy, and he frowned, reaching his left hand back to touch the place his head had hit the curb. When he withdrew it again, it was coated in blood. He stared at it with unfocused eyes.

Somebody was crouched beside him now, gently patting his shoulders.

"Are you alright, sir?" he asked gently.

Sherlock hissed, half from the pain, and half from the annoyance of loosing the killer. Everything was going foggy. His head was hurting... And so was his leg. And his arm for that matter. His eyes fluttered closed, before opening with an effort.

He stared around, blinking rapidly. There was a man squatted beside him, intense worry on his face. And a few other people staring down at him, hands over their mouths.

"'m fine." Sherlock muttered, attempting to sit up but failing.

The man looked sceptical.

"I think we should call an ambulance." said a women above him.

Sherlock roughly shook his head, though it made it hurt like hell.

"No. No. No don't," he murmured, finding it hard to get the words out. "Where's John?" that seemed to be important. John would know what to do.

He closed his eyes again, thinking about letting go of the struggle to stay conscious.

"Quick! Does anybody know anything that can help?" demanded the man from Sherlock's side.

"John. I need him." Sherlock groaned, wincing as he opened his eyes again.

"Betty, call an ambulance." snapped the man.

"No, don't bother." said a voice which made Sherlock's blood run cold.

He fought with every piece of will power to stay awake, to stay intent. And then Moriarty's face drifted into his line of sight, smiling to triumph. He whimpered, trying not to cower.

"Why? Can you help?" asked the man, unaware.

Sherlock cursed the stupidity of normal people. Surely it was obvious that Moriarty was a killer? A killer with malicious intent.

"I'll take him there myself. I was the one to run him after. I just hope it's not serious." said Moriarty, a smile still twitching his lips as he stared down a defenceless Sherlock.

"No!" Sherlock gasped, managing to ease himself away from Moriarty.

"I think it would be for the best, sir." said the man, whom Sherlock was taking a strong dislike to.

Sherlock shook his head again, with a superhuman effort pushing himself into a sitting position and glaring at Moriarty. He noticed that the scene had drawn quite a crowd, though none looked very concerned.

"Don't let him take me." snapped Sherlock, blinking to keep his eyes focused.

_Where's John? He wouldn't let this happen. He would stop them._ Sherlock wildly thought, looking around for his friend.

"Come on, up you get." said Moriarty.

Sherlock turned breeching eyes upon the man.

"Don't let him. Call an ambulance if you want. But don't let him." he said, swaying slightly, and grabbing the bloodstained curb to keep his balance.

"You're not well, sir. You need to go to hospital and it would be better if this man took you. Your injuries aren't serious." explained the man patiently, as though to a child.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to maintain his composure. He was probably concussed at the least. But he would be much worse than that if Moriarty got him.

So he tried something else.

"I really need to be getting home. My flatmate, he'll be worried. He's a doctor." Sherlock babbled, trying to look as sane as possible. And not desperate.

Moriarty took his arm, and Sherlock flinched away, hissing angrily.

"We need to hurry." snapped Moriarty.

He and the man hauled an extremely reluctant Sherlock to his feet. He swayed dangerous.

"He's going to kill me." he groaned, the smarting almost unbearable.

How stupid were these people? Didn't they realise he didn't want to go with Moriarty? How could they let him take him away.

"Don't be silly, sir. He only wants to help."

"Are you stupid? Are you mentally ill?" Sherlock shouted as Moriarty dragged him towards the car. "Can't you see? He's a murderer, he wants to kill me. He's tried twice before!"

The man looked a little doubtful, but Moriarty, that sly little snake, intervened.

"Concussion often makes people babble." he said, trying to ease Sherlock's grip of the door of his car.

"I'm not babbling. And I swear, if you've done anything to John, I will kill you Moriarty."

Moriarty shot him a smile nobody else saw. And Sherlock felt a totally ridiculous feeling of fear. Why should he care? John was a liability if he could make his blood run cold like that. But his confused brain didn't care, and let his panic show.

"I'll kill you, I promise I will. If you've done anything." Sherlock hissed.

His momentary fear was enough for Moriarty to release his grip of the door handle and push him roughly into the car. Moriarty turned to the shocked crowd.

"I'll make sure he makes it safely to hospital." he said.

Sherlock tried to speak, but found his voice suddenly constricted, a sharp pain was throbbing in his left arm, and to his horror he saw a needle embedded there, not a drop of whatever it had contained left. His world seemed to tip, and he groaned as his injuries seemed to come into sharp relief, the pain overwhelming.

He heard a car door open, and then shut. And the rumble of movement. Then he blacked out.

* * *

><p><strong>There we go, hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter to be up very soon. Please review!<strong>


	16. Missing

**Okay, next chapter, as promised! There is only one more to go after this, and yet again, I'm sorry if it feels rushed. (=**

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><p>John woke suddenly, with a gasp of surprise. He tried to figure things out in his aching head, sorting the memories. Heathrow. Chasing Sherlock. The shot. The doorway. Giving up. Hailing a taxi. Going back to Baker Street. Relaxing. And the nothing.<p>

He opened his eyes, and realised he was lying on the floor. A hard, concrete floor. Not in Baker Street then. A million billion possibilities flashed through his drugged brain.

He sat up, ignoring the sharp throb his head gave at this movement. He was in a room, which had no features whatsoever. Just hard stone walls. And a hard stone floor and ceiling. And a door, which was closed, and judging by the fact the place looked like a dungeon, it was locked. John's eyes flew to a crumpled figure which lay a few paces from him. Sherlock.

He scrambled over, his headache forgotten. He shook his friend's shoulders carefully, noting that the curly black hair was matted with drying blood.

He thanked his lucky stars, as well as Sherlock's, when he found that it was only a surface wound. Apart from that, he couldn't see anything wrong with his detective friend from a quick feel. Apart from that fact he was unconscious of course.

"Sherlock?" he whispered gently, shaking his shoulders.

"He'll come round soon." came a horribly familiar singsong Irish voice.

John spun round, effectively blocking Sherlock from Moriarty's view.

"Well isn't this merry?" asked the psychopath, clapping his hands.

"What exactly is merry about it?" snarled John.

"You. Me. Sherlock. This delightful little room. We're going to have so much fun!"

John had forgotten how scarily insane Moriarty could be.

"I've been planning this since you escaped me at the pool. That was just luck. This time you wont be so lucky. You were easy, as expected. Sherlock however, I love how much of challenge can be!" Moriarty said, smiling almost proudly at Sherlock.

John risked a glance at his friend. He wondered what on earth Moriarty had done to him.

"It was simpler than you'd think. I took him right off the street." the consulting criminal boasted.

John felt a glimmer of hope. Mycroft would find them. Lestrade would find them. Perhaps they wouldn't die.

"But don't get your hopes up. There was nothing suspicious about. Except his babbling." Moriarty cracked an evil smile.

Sherlock gave a whimpered moan, curling himself up slightly.

"There were hundreds of witnesses. Yet none of the well say a thing. You'd think in this day an age it would impossible to kidnap somebody under the noses of twenty people. But then, people can be so stupid."

John swallowed. Maybe nobody would find them. If anybody even cared enough to search. Lestrade might be put out a mild effort to find them, but why should he really care? And Mycroft... John could never tell with him. He said he cared for his brother, but John didn't really believe it.

"-And I just ran him over. Simple. And brilliant. I don't think anybody, not even Sherlock, could think a simpler or more brilliant plan. Sadly, my man didn't hit him hard enough, and he put up quite a fuss."

John glared at him, feeling hatred well up inside him.

"Well, I suppose I'll be seeing you boys later. Give Sherlock my love." Moriarty said, looking completely demented again.

He left as silently as he had arrived, and John buried his head in his knees, wondering what to do.

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke slowly, making no sign he was regaining consciousness. As he was in enemy hands, he didn't want anybody to know he was awake until he had assessed the situation. He was in a cellar of basement of some kind. Or maybe it was a real dungeon. That would be typical of Moriarty.<p>

When his brain had stopped fuzzing, and he felt alert again, he opened his eyes. As he had thought, he was in a concrete room. He blinked a few times, his eyes travelling round the room, and finally landing on a dejected look John. Sherlock felt a spark of relief as his eyes swept over his friend. It seemed John was unhurt.

He was staring at the other wall, mouth pursed.

"John?" Sherlock said clearly to gain his attention.

The ex army doctor started, and looked over to Sherlock, a smile cracking his lips.

"How long have you been awake?"

"A short while." said Sherlock, sitting up and rubbing his head.

"And how's the head?"

"Painful. But nothing serious."

John nodded, and opened his mouth.

"Yes, I know that it's Moriarty that has caught us." said Sherlock a little more tersely than he intended.

He needed to think, now more than ever. And however worried he _had_ been about John, that was all gone now. He was hoping against hope that somebody would tell Lestrade about the car scene. That was their only hope. Unless, a miracle happened and Moriarty made a mistake.

"Any ideas?" asked John hopefully after a full ten minutes of silence.

"None whatsoever." said Sherlock, though if he had any, he wouldn't have told John. The room was sure to be under surveillance.

"Moriarty said he took you away under the noses of loads of people. Maybe..." John trailed off shrugging.

"They were all complete idiots. Of course. I told them, but they didn't believe me." snapped Sherlock.

"Well, come on. It must have sounded like you were a lunatic or something." said John, actually having the nerve to snigger.

Sherlock huffed. Though he didn't want to say it, they now had to trust in Mycroft. _Of all the people I have to rely of, of course it has to be Mycroft._ Thought Sherlock grumpily. But Mycroft had a deadly advantage. Moriarty had no idea he even existed.

* * *

><p>It was early morning, and Lestrade had just arrived at the yard. He'd just got settled behind his desk, ready for another day of annoyance, and Sherlock, when there was a knock, and a tall, rather aristocratic looking man entered.<p>

He stared icily at Lestrade, and behind him, Lestrade could see a dark girl, texting on her phone. He was pretty sure he'd seen the pair before, put couldn't quite place the memory.

"Hello?" he asked cautiously.

"Greg Lestrade." said the man cordially, eyes travelling round the room with no interest whatsoever.

"What can I do for you?" asked Lestrade.

"I came to ask you when the last time you saw Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was." said the stranger.

Then Lestrade placed the vague feeling of having seen them before. It was Sherlock's brother. Mycroft or whatever his equally ridiculous name was.

"Erm... Yesterday, at noon. Why, what's happened?" asked Lestrade nervous.

"My brother and his flatmate have disappeared. And I suspect they have been kidnapped."

"Oh..." Lestrade wasn't quite sure how he felt. Sherlock was, as he had said to John, a great man. And he was becoming a good one. But that didn't mean he wasn't a right pain.

"Well... Is there anything I can do?" asked Lestrade uncomfortably.

Mycroft considered.

"Both Sherlock and Dr. Watson disappeared after causing a rather large commotion in Heathrow. Try and find out if anybody's got any information." said Mycroft. "My team a reviewing all surveillance."

"Okay. I'll get right on it. Tell me if there are any developments." said Lestrade.

Mycroft nodded, and left, leaving a slightly confused Lestrade in his wake.

* * *

><p>That day, Mycroft worked his hardest to find out anything he could about where his baby brother had gone. Try as he might however, he found no information on where Sherlock had been abducted, or who by.<p>

But he had found some footage of John getting into a cab, and never getting out of one at Baker Street. So that was probably how John was taken. But why Sherlock wasn't with him, Mycroft didn't know. By the only slightly worried look on John's face, he guessed that nothing bad had happened at that point.

That day, 'missing' posters appeared all over London thanks to Lestrade. And a several adverts in some newspapers. On the whole, Mycroft was fairly sure that they would be able to find out exactly where and how his brother was abducted.

Sure enough, the next day, he got a call from Lestrade, saying he had a witness who had seen the whole thing.

Mycroft rushed down. Despite Sherlock's total likeableness, he worried truly about his brother. Admittedly that was partly because of Mummy making him promise to look after the young detective.

He arrived at the yard, looking totally unconcerned about everything, Anthea by his side, tapping steadily away. A few minutes later, they were sitting in an interrogation room, though not a particularity uncomfortable one. A slightly shaken looking man was seated, looking extremely nervous.

"What did you see?" asked Mycroft patiently, preparing himself to deal with the idiocy of modern people.

"I was... It was... I-I didn't-" the man groaned burying his hands in his hair.

Definitely a first class idiot. Mycroft sighed, tapping his umbrella against the floor.

"Do you recognise this man?" he asked, pulling out one of his few photo's of Sherlock.

The man nodded.

"That's the one. T-the one that..." he trailed off, moaning in self pity again.

Carefully stowing the picture away, Mycroft huffed again.

"Start from the beginning. This could save two men's lives." he tutted.

The man nodded, pulling himself together with a deep breath.

"I was walking along the street with my girlfriend, just coming back from lunch, and I was roughly shoved by the man you just showed me. I was about to yell at him, but he dashed across the street, and got knocked down by a car."

Mycroft pursed his lips, hoping that his brother wasn't injured.

"Do you believe he was pursuing somebody?"

"Yes. There was another man, but he got away."

"Very well. Go on."

"Anyway, I rushed over. The man was mainly fine. He'd hit his head on the curb, and there was blood everywhere, and I think it messed up with his mind a bit."

Mycroft suppressed another sigh.

"What was he saying?"

"Well he said he was fine. Though he could barely sit up. And then he was going on about a man called John. And then the man who ran him over turned up, and offered to take him to hospital. But this man, he took a... Dislike to the man who knocked him down, which isn't really surprising, but then started babbling about how he was going to kill him. And then he went on about if this man had hurt the other man, John, he was going to kill him."

"So John wasn't with him?"

"No. I don't think so. Otherwise he'd have come over to help, right?"

"Indeed. Did my brother name the man that ran him over?"

"Brother? Oh... Erm, he did yes. Morarty, Marty or something like that."

Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose. So his fears were true, Sherlock had been plucked off the street by Moriarty, and John had also been taken, unable to aid the detective.

"Do you think something bad has happened?" asked the man.

Mycroft groaned. Sometimes he saw where his brother was coming from.

"Yes. My brother has been kidnapped. You may go." he dismissed, his tone making it impossible to refuse.

The man left hastily, guilt plastered over his features.

Mycroft drew a calming breath, and drew out his phone.

* * *

><p>John sighed, leaning back against the wall. By the cramps in his stomach, he guessed they had been imprisoned for quite some time. But time passed, and it was impossible to tell how much. Their cell was lit by a small bulb which hung forlornly from the ceiling, occasionally dimming down slightly.<p>

Sherlock had said barely a word since their first exchange, and he was now curled on the floor like a cat, grey eyes staring at the door with such intensity that John was surprised they hadn't burnt a hole straight through the thing.

He had taken his coat of, and used it as a pillow for his damaged head. John had had another quick look, just to make sure, and he was certain that no harm would befall Sherlock from that particular wound. Apparently Sherlock's arm and leg were aching, but the detective refused to let him look at them.

So they sat in silence, Sherlock attempting to burn a hole through the door, and John trying not to worry about what Moriarty was going to do to them.

He was half asleep when Sherlock roused him with a sharp 'John'. John started awake, just in time to hear the door open. Sherlock was now sitting bolt upright, face betraying not a single sliver of emotion. In fact, from the amount he expressed, he could have been dead. Even his eyes, normally so bright and quick seemed to say nothing.

Moriarty appeared on the threshold, smiling like a loon.

"Sherlock, my dear. How nice to see you again. I don't count our last encounter, as you were clearly not in your right state of mind. Maybe my driver hit you harder than I thought." Moriarty drawled, a cocky smile twitching his lips.

"I don't think so."

"Aww , don't be like that. You'll regret it later." cooed Moriarty, taking a set forward. "Though of course, nothing you do or say will change the outcome of this afternoon."

_We've been in here twenty four hours... Not even Mycroft can save us in that amount of time. _Thought John gloomily.

"Get on with the theatrics, I've had enough of you." said Sherlock disdainfully.

"Have you really? Because when we started you seemed keen enough. What changed your mind, hmm?" Moriarty advanced a few more steps.

"You can't make me play. And I wont, so don't even try." said Sherlock, eyes flashing with hate and determination.

Moriarty considered him for a moment.

"I don't plan to make you join in Sherlock. You wont be playing any more games after this."

Sherlock betrayed no fear, instead he smiled softly, keeping every ounce of dignity.

"Do what you like. I don't care." he said steadily.

And Moriarty smiled.

"Ah, the forte of the great Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't care. He is more dead than alive, his heart buried forever. He never lets anybody in." Moriarty whispered, eyes full of pure venom.

And then Sherlock's self assurance faltered, and his eyes went blank.

And then John realised what Sherlock had worked out milliseconds before him. Moriarty was going to make good his promise. He was going to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p><strong>There we go. I just kinda decided to have fun with this chapter and do what I like (= I hope its okay. Please review (= Last chapter to be up this evening. <strong>


	17. Final

**Okay, the very last chapter of this fic. There wont be a epilogue or sequel. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm mainly pleased with how it turned out, but there are places I'm not happy with. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Mycroft had spent the whole morning getting his whole team to go through every surveillance tape that showed recordings from twelve o'clock to two o'clock. Once he found out about Moriarty, he had dug and dug into he found little snippets of information. So he knew something about the man he was facing. He was very similar to Sherlock in many way.<p>

So he waited for his team to bring in results. And at two o-clock in the afternoon, twenty hour hours after Sherlock had been kidnapped, they struck gold.

A video of a large, out of use warehouse. The camera only showed the empty car park, and an indistinct door. At the far edge of the camera's screen, the door opened, and two men carried a third, tall, pale man through the doorway. It was barely ten minutes after that that the same procedure was carried out, but this time was Dr. Watson.

Mycroft called his very special team. The one he used for extra delicate missions, and then told Anthea to get his car ready.

* * *

><p>Sherlock said nothing as he was pulled to his feet by two thugs. Did nothing as he was hauled from the room. John watched them go, a cold shiver of foreboding creeping up his spine. He had thought that he would be the one to be killed, and Sherlock would be released.<p>

Moriarty thought that Sherlock would fall apart. But John thought differently. He dared to hope that the detective would miss him. Maybe even mourn him. But become incapable of doing anything? Definitely not. Moriarty was wrong.

It didn't seem good however that Sherlock had been the one taken. So he sat in silence, a hundred fearful thoughts running over his mind.

The minutes ticked by, and nothing happened. Not a sound was to be heard.

John was really beginning to wonder what Moriarty was playing at, when the door burst open, and Sherlock appeared.

John stared at him.

"Get up. Quick!" Sherlock snapped, grabbing his arm a hauling him to his feet.

John followed him, more out of habit than anything, trying to figure out what had happened.

Sherlock looked unharmed. And there was no alarm being raised. Just deathly silence except for Sherlock's panting breath.

"What happened?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, clearly saying 'shut up'. They ran along a corridor, up a flight of stairs and through another corridor. Sherlock would occasionally pause for a heartbeat, looking around, evidently trying to work out which way they had to go. Finally, they hurried through a doorway, and into a huge warehouse, full of creates, dim and empty. A little light filtered through impossibly grubby windows.

They hurried across, toward a huge doorway.

Then John stopped.

"Sh-Sherlock." said whispered, pointing at the detective.

Sherlock stared at him, face frozen. Playing across his face was a horribly familiar red dot. A few moments later, one appeared on John's chest.

"Got you!" Moriarty's singsong voice echoed from somewhere.

Sherlock closed his eyes, mouth clenching.

Moriarty appeared from a patch of creates, hands in his pockets, sauntering over.

"Well. This certainly reminds me of something." he said, eyes cold and hard.

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Except this time, you wont escape."

* * *

><p>Sherlock felt a feeling he had never experienced. Total despair. He knew in that split second that there was no way they could escape by themselves. Moriarty had them. He had been a fool to think he had escaped. It had all been just that little bit too easy. Moriarty had got him.<p>

So he did the only thing he could, and stood passively, awaiting his fate. Which would be death. Moriarty wouldn't want to risk him escaping again. He was to dangerous.

Sherlock vaguely wondered if anybody would care. John wouldn't, because he would be dead too. Mycroft would know, but whether he would care or not was a totally different matter. Lestrade might never learn. To him, they could have just disappeared of the face of the earth, and he would never know the truth. Mrs. Hudson would be told he had been killed. Murdered. And she would probably care. Molly wouldn't ever learn. Mycroft wouldn't tell her, and Lestrade couldn't.

After going over this short list, Sherlock felt that nothing mattered. So he stared steadily at Moriarty. He wasn't scared.

"It will be sad, not to have an equal adversary." commented Moriarty, tipping his head.

"Poor you." Sherlock drawled.

"But it's been good fun while it lasted, hmm?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Because, yes, when it started, it had been fun. Something new, something interesting. But his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"Get on with it Moriarty." he snapped.

The morbid amusement left Moriarty's eyes.

"Very well." he said, voice cold as stone.

Sherlock knew by the deep breath John drew that he had closed his eyes. But he didn't, looking his nemesis in the eyes. And it was only because of this that he saw a small red dot appear on Moriarty's forehead. He didn't show his surprise, just waited for either Moriarty or he to drop dead.

It was Moriarty that died. The bullet struck his forehead, the light left his eyes, and he crumpled to the floor.

Sherlock turned his eyes away, letting out a shaky breath. Moriarty was dead. Gone forever.

* * *

><p>The next few hours passed as a blur. Mycroft and his men appearing from behind the creates after taking over Moriarty's snipers. He and John been hustled outside where an ambulance waited. Those ridiculous orange blankets. Mycroft going on about many unequally interesting topics. And finally being shipped home in Mycroft's black car.<p>

Once they got home, Sherlock threw himself on the sofa. Not sure how he felt. John had barely said a word, and stood for a moment, before going of to make a cup of tea.

A few minutes later he reappeared, handing a cup to Sherlock who took it without complaint. Then he sat down and watched the consulting detective closely.

"He's gone Sherlock." he said finally, sipping at his tea.

"I know." said Sherlock, voice without a drop of emotion.

"Are you... Sad?" asked John, obviously not knowing how to phrase his question.

Sherlock understood what he meant though.

"No." he said.

And it was true. Before the pool thing, he would have been... disappointed if Moriarty were killed. Because he knew what it was like to be bored. He knew how to play a game. But after that, it had all changed. Moriarty wasn't going to play fair.

But then again, Sherlock didn't feel any elation at the death of Moriarty. Just felt strange. Wiped of any feeling at all.

"Well, I for one am pleased that there is one less psychopath running around, intent on killing us." said John, smiling slightly.

Sherlock smiled a little too.

_The End_

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><p><strong>Finished! I really hope you enjoyed it, and considered it worth reading (= I'd just like to thank <em>SymmetryGirl<em> for reviewing so often. _Sparrow33 _for making me smile for hours. And _Rivers of Angelic Roses _for the best review (= And many thanks to everybody else who reviewed, they mean an awful lot to me.**

**I've currently got another Sherlock Fic on the go, so if you check it out, that'd be great! Along with a drabble. Enjoy Sherlock tonight, if your British :D I'm really looking forward to it.**


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